


There is But Fire

by carmen_sandiego



Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5629246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmen_sandiego/pseuds/carmen_sandiego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rating for sexuality and some violence</p><p>Sydney/Sark fic set in the not-too-distant future. I'm not sure how to categorize it, other than to say it's somewhere in the Drama/Action/Angst area. This is set several years after the events of 'Resurrection,' and Sydney's in a deep cover post in Berlin. A year into her mission there, a familiar face shows up and she finds herself re-evaluating her life once again. </p><p>Post-Season Three future fic.</p><p>Originally posted on Livejournal in 2004. Archiving here so it is still in the fic record!</p><p>Title is taken from 'The Mask' by W.B. Yeats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * * * *   
  
She's had more than a year to adjust her expectations, at least when it comes to her personal life. Anything in her professional life has once again become influenced by the position she takes, or by the choices she has made, and by the ones the CIA has made for her.   
  
Working for a man like Johannes Faber isn't something anyone would do for fun, and the fact that this is her deep cover assignment doesn't fill her with any sense of belief in civic welfare or patriotic duty. Those sentiments were attached to her life before, and one of the first things that caught her by surprise in this new life was how easily she left her dutiful outlook behind.  
  
Certainly she follows her orders and carries out her tasks, just as she's supposed to. She doesn't question very much any more either, provided she can see the logic behind the task. She's accepted the fact that deep cover posts are long-term, and the eleven months she's been here in Berlin have so far been quite successful. She knows that she'll most likely be here for another year, depending on how long it takes the CIA to get their operations organized, and how accurate the information is that she can relay to them.  
  
This isn't a job any more, not exactly. It would be hard to call it a life, either. It's a set of tasks waiting to be completed, instructions that need to be followed. _An assignment, a contract, a mission. Remember the facts, memorize the names, snap the photographs. Become his confidante. Gain his trust, do what you're told, do what you have to do. Dead drops. Covert meeting every three months.  
  
Forget about yourself_, is the unspoken addition to the list, and most days, that's just fine - it's part of the reason she wanted a deep cover assignment in the first place. She knows that Berlin is one step in a series that make up the path her life will now take. Her certainty that it will some day come to an end is something that comforts her, reassures her that she can move on.  
  
Still, there are some things she refuses to do.   
  
* * * *   
  
It was a year ago, about two months in to her cover, when Faber sent her to Moscow to negotiate a purchase on his behalf. He warned her to play her cards properly and give his contact the proper qualifications. She knows now that she should have seen through it. It would have been so glaringly obvious to her if only she'd paid the right attention.   
  
When she arrived in Moscow it was only so she could wait another hour for Faber's contact to show. He arrived with one bodyguard in tow and a casual swagger in his step.   
  
She was brisk. "Do you have the specs?"  
  
"Sure, sweetheart. It's Karen, right? Why so tense?"  
  
 _Actually, it's not Karen, it's Sydney. And fuck off_. "Don't call me sweetheart. I don't appreciate being kept waiting."  
  
"Sure, darling. I've got everything waiting around the corner, you can...view the merchandise for yourself."  
  
"That wasn't the deal. Faber didn't say anything about any secondary arrangements."  
  
He was very close to her then. "I don't really give a shit what Faber arranged. I'm telling you if you want the specs, then you're coming with me. Right now."  
  
Her arm was in his grip and his eyes roamed greedily along the collar of her jacket and the curve of her hips. A lascivious smile turned on his face, and she knew then exactly what secondary arrangements Faber had accounted for, and what specs he wanted delivered. Sydney wrenched her arm away. She did this once before in her life and managed to erase it, and would be damned if she did it again.   
  
"I'm going to tell you one more time. Give me the specs now, or I walk away. Do you have them or not?"  
  
"I don't think you get it, Karen sweetheart - you'll have the specs when you give me something in exchange, all right?"  
  
Her knee met his stomach before words could answer first, and the sound of her right hook against his cheek quickly followed. She had her gun trained on his companion before either of the men could draw a weapon.   
  
"That's the only exchange you'll get from me until you give me what I want. Tell your friend," she said then to the bodyguard, "if he wants to deal I'll expect his phone call in the next 30 minutes. If not, he can take his business elsewhere and pretend he never met me."  
  
She was back in Berlin that evening, and immediately squared off with Faber in his office. He was less than sympathetic.  
  
"I sent you to do a job!" he shouted.  
  
"And that's what I went there to do," she countered just as forcefully. "I just didn't expect the job was going to involve working as your _whore._ "  
  
She spat out the words with such distaste it was as if she was talking to Kendall again, not the head of Europe's largest drug and weapons cartel. He looked at her in affronted shock and stepped around the desk so casually she thought he was about to apologize for his mistake.  
  
Sydney was on the floor before she could think; One of her hands was pressed to her jaw where his slap had landed across her cheek, her other wrapped around her stomach as if bracing herself against a second blow.  
  
"When I send you to do a job," he told her, "I expect you to do the job."  
  
She coughed and winced, grasping at a nearby chair. He watched her pull herself up to stand in front of him again, steeling her resolve to meet whatever he would throw at her next.  
  
"If that's the job you want done, then find someone else to do it." Given her covert presence, she knew those words verged on suicide for her, but she pressed on. "You hired me because I can do more than that. If this is your twisted idea of a test, then you can forget it."   
  
Even according to her false profile, she was overqualified for the jobs he'd been giving her, and Faber knew it. She'd come to him with a laundry list of hits in North America and Europe, experienced in disarming security, blackmail, weapons, trades...The CIA had gone full throttle on her profile. Karen Sorensen was a freelancer who could do everything Agent Sydney Bristow could do, and then some.   
  
Faber's hand moved to take a second swipe at her, but she was ready this time and sidestepped the punch. She caught his arm in seconds, and three more seconds later she had him pinned to his desk, his face caught against the stapler. A groan of surprised pain escaped his mouth.  
  
Sydney knew she had taken back the upper hand, at least for the moment. "Call me when you have real work for me to do."   
  
She dodged the rest of his employees on her way out, and spent the next three days moving back and forth between her apartment and the most crowded places she could think of. She saw the tails, and they knew she saw them. Her fingers itched to pull out her cell phone, call Faber and tell him she'd been foolish.   
  
But she resisted.   
  
On the third day she got the call from Faber. This time the job would be in Prague. This time the job would be different.  
  
  
* * * * *   
  
More than a year has passed since that trip to Moscow. There's no work for her today and she takes the time to explore the parts of Berlin that are familiar to her.   
  
The paths along _die Linden_ aren’t usually where she walks, but today she tries again. The appeal isn’t the competitive attraction of the location, or the fact that regardless of the season she is forced to weave carelessly between the tourists that flock between the benches and ice cream stands and souvenir vendors at either end. This same walk through the middle of the city used to remind her of too many old possibilities, a sense of newness that has gradually faded from her life.  
  
Sydney turns the corner and walks through the Brandenburg gate and knows she should feel anything but trapped, here at this site that should represent so much freedom and possibility. She's standing steps ahead of the many state office buildings that reside nearby, including the American embassy, and steps behind the rows of pale yellow leaves that dignify the trees. If she turns back, limestone grey walls of stone and state and history will remind her of the past lives that will never be returned to her. If she continues, the leaves will eventually fall to her feet and she will wonder at the futures she might have had.   
  
The gate stands behind her as she turns her gaze to the right and her eye lights on one of the ice cream carts, one which so far has seen relatively little traffic. Just now, she doesn’t care that it’s barely mid-morning or that it’s a little chilly for the early September day. She buys a hazelnut scoop and thanks the elderly gentleman.  
  
“Danke schoen.”  
  
“Bitte sehr, Fraeulein.”  
  
This city isn’t the same as Los Angeles, but it’s also expansive and busy and big enough to get lost in. There are days when she wants nothing else but to lose herself, even for the scarce few hours that it takes her to roam one of the central galleries or ride the trains to the bare outskirts of town.   
  
Because it’s still early in the day, the wooden benches haven’t yet been invaded by touring sightseers or lunchtime visitors. She takes a long glance towards them, but in the end turns away, walking briskly towards the _Tiergarten_. When she crosses the street the busy traffic is only a brief distraction, and it takes three tastes before she realizes the hazelnut is actually pistachio.  
  
  
* * * * *   
  
She never ceases to be amazed by the way he works. American crime lords meet everywhere from the hotel Ritz to dingy alleyways, but Faber operates like he's your average upscale security contractor. Upstanding office, discrete staff, expensive suits. His coiffed black hair looks like it came out of the latest style magazine, just like the rest of his clothing and the décor in his office. He always talks to Sydney in English, even though he knows she speaks German, and she knows that he knows. His accent is still noticeable although it's clear to her how skilled he is in language among other things.   
  
There are moments now when she almost gets down on her knees to thank SD-6 for all the covert practice it gave her. Compared to the effort it took for her to smile breezily at Sloane, working with Faber is like returning to grade school. It also doesn’t hurt that she made her standards clear to him so early on.  
  
Faber still looks at her in a way that makes her skin crawl, and she knows that when she turns to leave a room he's watching the sway of her hips and the curve of her leg. She knows he's looking, and she lets him. Since the botched Moscow operation she's complied with everything she's considered appropriate, particularly as long as it is something the CIA requires of her, and she's gotten away with it.   
  
The rougher she treats Faber, the gentler he acts towards her, and the shorter her skirts get, the more powerful she becomes. It makes her smile, in her moments alone. When he watches her, speaks to her, she gives off just enough appreciation to make him feel proud of her, and that's the only reason she lets him look at her the way he does. Enough satisfaction warms her from the inside, and she can keep going until that day far down the road when this cover will end and another new life will begin.   
  
She's learned to lower her expectations, and so she's not sure whether or not to be surprised when, one year and one month after Moscow, she walks into Faber's office and finds a familiar figure sitting in one of the Italian leather armchairs.   
  
"Ah, Karen," Faber says, standing up to make introductions. It hasn't taken a whole year for him to become this cordial around her. "This is Evan Crane, a new business associate. He comes to us from London."   
  
_No_ , she thinks. _Absolutely, no._  
  
He seems stronger than she remembers. His clothing is simpler, and his hair is tinted brown instead of blond. And although it's faded and healed quite a bit in the last five years, a thin scar curves underneath his right eye across his cheekbone, betraying the harsh interrogation strategies of her ex-husband.   
  
Indeed, her own style has become darker and less professional than what the man in front of her now would have expected from her before. Her hair falls in straight auburn strands far below her shoulders, and her brown eyes are masked by hazel contact lenses.  
  
Still, there is no question. _I am Sydney Bristow, this is Julian Sark, and he is anything but a simple business associate._  
  
She holds out her hand anyway, as professionally as she has done every day for the last year. "Karen Sorensen," she introduces herself. Her pulse quickens as her mind considers for a moment what this man could possibly be doing here. This was a man she had never even expected to see alive again, let alone three feet away from her in this office. Her mind races through a catalogue of possibilities, each one an attempt to convince her that this is all a coincidence and nothing else.   
  
He stands as well. "Karen, is it?" he asks, to which she inclines her head slightly. He hasn’t lost the British accent.   
  
"Lovely to meet you."   
  
He leans forward for a moment when he takes her hand and she thinks that will be all, but that's _not_ all, because he dips further and brushes his lips across the back of her hand. "The pleasure is all mine," he says agreeably.  
  
She's caught off guard for a second - something that hasn’t happened in months - but soon she's recovered herself enough to snap her fingers away from his and respond with a glare. As she does so he stiffens with a nodding reply, a brief retreat from his eager greeting.   
  
When she rounds the armchair to lean against the desk, she catches Faber glancing towards her with a question in his eye. She knows the reason, because the last time a man tried to bring his lips anywhere near a part of her body, Faber watched her break the man's wrist. Sydney returns a hardened glare of disdain and faces Sark again, but her question is still aimed at Faber.  
  
"To what do we owe this new partnership?" She asks, deliberately using the plural possessive.   
  
Her voice betrays exactly the right amount of skepticism and disinterest, and so she is pleased to watch the expression on Sark's face weaken in frustration. She's certain this isn't something Faber would bother to notice, but Sydney's been on the receiving end of that expression before, close enough to recognize it now, years later.   
  
"Mr. Crane comes to us with a considerable number of North American contacts who will be most helpful to us," he tells her. She fights the urge to roll her eyes at how innocently he describes the business he is running. "Of course, we'll be working very closely for the next few months, arranging some new contracts, this sort of thing. Karen, I'm sure you'll be an excellent liaison in this, given your own experiences in the United States?"  
  
Avoiding the pleased look she knows is creeping back across Sark's face, she turns to Faber and can practically see the question marks turning into dollar signs. Right now Sydney can guess at how thrilled he is to have these two people in the room with him and under his direction. She's also willing to bet he doesn't care how she acts, just that she doesn't break anything of Sark's that Faber needs to conduct his lucrative affairs.   
  
"I don't see why not," she says evenly, offering 'Mr. Crane' an appraising glance.  
  
"Excellent," Faber answers, looking back and forth between the two of them for a moment, before turning to Sydney. "Why don't the two of you get to know each other a little? In the mean time you can work out the details of our first project - there's some property on the American East Coast that interests me for storage purposes, and I'm sure you and Evan will have some ideas on which shipments we should arrange first."  
  
He sets a file down on the desk next to Sydney, smiling the entire time. The dollar signs just got a little bigger.  
  
"Sure. It sounds like we shouldn't waste any time." She flashes the briefest of smiles towards Faber and turns back to Sark, who is still on his feet.   
  
"I couldn't agree more," Sark answers.   
  
Sydney looks down at the file next to her and picks it up as she nods at Faber. "All right. Let's get started."  
  
* * * * *   
  
Faber keeps a handful of meeting rooms available in the building he owns near the _Potsdamer Platz_ , and Sydney and Sark occupy one of those rooms by themselves. She's sitting at the far end of the table, and he's reclining in a chair at the side.   
  
She's got her glasses on, her laptop out, and her eyes are glancing back and forth between the screen and the keyboard and the pages scattered between them on the table. They've been working like this for two hours. To anyone else who might be watching, this is a business meeting between Karen Sorensen and Evan Crane, and they are working very efficiently.   
  
There's a knock at the door, and Sophie, one of Faber's assistants, opens the door to look in on them. Sydney gives her a request for lunch, and she scurries off again.  
  
A silent pause lingers between them, and in the hallway outside the room.   
  
Sydney decides to try. "How long have you been running your own operation, Mr. Crane?" she asks as if only out of casual curiosity, her attention still on the laptop. "It's rare to meet someone so young who is also so successful."  
  
The last time she or the CIA had heard of Sark was five years ago, after he escaped CIA custody for the second time. A month after that there was a shooting outside Taipei, and several well-known Covenant operatives were killed. A fire claimed enough damage to prevent positive identification of all of them, but nonetheless the Agents who were involved in the investigation had confirmed Julian Sark as one of them. The fact that the CIA had had no reports of his activities since then had only solidified that report.  
  
It took another year before the Covenant splintered and was finally destroyed. By then there were few enemies of the United States that could compare with the Covenant's reach, and even fewer targets left, to Sydney's frustration. She chose the most challenging operation she could find.  
  
Now here she sits, casually doing business with someone she'd believed to be dead, and arranging property transfers and warehouse holdings for a man she was learning to despise almost as much as Arvin Sloane.  
  
Sark watched her for a moment. "We all have ambitions," he says, as if in explanation. "I try to follow as many of mine as possible."  
  
"You remind me of someone I knew once," she tells him, looking at him now.  
  
"Really? How remarkable," he allows, apparently unsurprised at her comment. Perhaps they both knew it would only be a matter of time before this conversation happened between them.  
  
"Yes, it is. But then, I'm not sure he was in the same line of work as you are now." She reclines a little in her seat as she talks, and notices him reacting, nodding ever so slightly. "It's your manner that reminds me of him. The way you talk."  
  
"Indeed." He speaks evenly, revealing only what is necessary. When she looks at him she still catches the unmistakable glint in his eye. He answers her with just enough confidence to let her know that he's exactly who she thinks he is, and possibly more.  
  
"It was very intriguing at first. But now, I see that you couldn't possibly be him." She sits straightly again, pulling the laptop a bit closer to her chair.   
  
"Of course. I would have remembered if I had met you before," he nods.  
  
"Yes. Actually I remember now – I read in the paper that this man died. I think he was killed in a fire." This much is true, and she knows he would have expected her to be aware of it. She's waiting to see if he chooses to reveal anything else.   
  
He lifts his eyebrows a little, but doesn’t respond right away. "What a shame. I must say, though, you do remind me of someone, also," he tells her, and she can tell that the subject of his whereabouts after his 'death' are no longer a topic for conversation. _Two can play at this game, apparently._  
  
"What a coincidence." She blinks slowly, wondering if she can answer just as skillfully as he has.  
  
"It is, I know. This woman, she had the same way of speaking as you do, the same...attractive figure," he adds, and she's a little startled at this.   
  
Still, she resists his bait. "But I would have remembered meeting _you_ ," Sydney tells him. "You seem like the sort of man who would leave a lasting impression." She can't describe why she finds herself teasing him back. Somehow she finds herself enjoying this exchange more than she expected.   
  
"You flatter me."  
  
"Not at all. Do you know what happened to this woman, the one I remind you of?" She's curious at what he knows.  
  
He shakes his head slowly. "No. The last I heard, she didn't have a very happy life."  
  
Her gaze has drifted briefly, but she looks back at him now, directly at him. He's finally done it, he's touched the right nerve. She's off-balance again, and takes a second to compose her thoughts.   
  
"I'm sorry to hear that," she says faintly.  
  
"Yes, so was I," he answers, equally calm.  
  
Just then, Sophie knocks on the door, and lunch is served. For the rest of the day, they say nothing else about each other.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
One month later Evan Crane has visited Berlin three times, each time including Karen Sorensen in whatever affairs he needed to arrange. Each time she affords him a wide professional distance, or at least as wide as she can make it.   
  
During a meeting on the fourth visit, he stands a little too close and brushes her arm with his when he reaches for a file.   
  
She flinches, but takes a long appraising look back at him as she turns again. When she does, he’s looking right at her, a calm but decisive look on his face. She's trying to decide if her surprise resembles affront more than pleasure, when she realizes how very long it's been since she stood this close to a man and felt a sense of normality - let alone comfort. This man in front of her has become a part of her life here, whether she has planned for it or not. What she still can't tell is how much of a part that will be.  
  
She avoids his glance for hours afterwards, and doesn’t say goodbye to him when he leaves.  
  
The next day Evan Crane is gone again, and she’s sipping a strong cup of coffee in Faber’s office.   
  
“You and Evan are working well together,” he tells her, sitting down with his own black cup. He inhales the scent before taking his first sip.  
  
“Are we?” she asks, leaning back and observing the Klee print on his wall.   
  
He nods, sets his cup on the desk in front of him. “You must be. I haven’t seen him suffer any consequences that would indicate otherwise. Also, the accounts are showing considerable improvements.”  
  
She turns her head just enough to catch him in her line of sight. “He’s very good at what he does.”  
  
Faber smiles slowly and then nods again, as if waiting to hear more. But this is all she will offer now, and so he picks up his coffee again  
  
"So are you, my dear," he tells her. "So are you."  
  
Her pulse quickens again, something that bothers her. She tells herself she has nothing to be ashamed of.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
Another month passes before her next meeting with an Agent, face to face. It’s her father this time, not the more junior Agent who’s been handling her until now. There are many guesses in her mind as to why Jack Bristow hasn’t been sent before, but she has the feeling his appearance now indicates that the stakes have been raised.   
  
She walks to the U-bahn and from there takes a cab to the nightclub, one of the places she’s met an Agent before. It makes her a little nervous to be repeating her locations, but it’s a Saturday night, and it’s busy, and she’s dressed to convey all the appearances of a girl ready for a good time. It’s a club with private rooms, which makes a meeting there all the easier to arrange.  
  
When she arrives, she knows her father is waiting for her two floors above the main entrance, and it takes her about fifteen minutes to smile at all the right people, sip at a poorly mixed manhattan, and make her way in the direction of the ladies room. At the last possible moment she takes a detour and finds the darkened rear stairwell.   
  
Finding out that your father had plans for you virtually from the day of your birth would be an unusual experience at best, and Sydney's made that discovery more than once in her life by now. Forgiveness has been hard. But she's also come to realize that her father may be the only person in the world she can trust implicitly - or at least, the closest she may ever find. She's accepted the fact that the things he has done for her, he has done for a reason.  
  
Most days, she can sink into this new existence and the memories don't follow too closely. But there are days when memories wake her from her sleep, or find her suddenly in the middle of an assignment. She misses him then.  
  
Even Jack has to admit he’s had difficulties watching his daughter commit herself to such an isolated assignment, and for such a long time. She steps into the room and shuts the door quickly, and he enfolds her in his arms before she can speak.   
  
Sydney lets him end the embrace, too, and when he releases her she drinks in the sight of him just as eagerly as he does her. Her eyelashes flutter quickly against the dampness that threatens to spring up, and she swallows against the lump in her throat. It’s been too long since she’s seen him.   
  
He looks thinner than he used to – not too much, but enough that she notices. His hair seems greyer than before. He’s taking in her appearance as well, and she wonders what he sees. His fingers catch on a lock of auburn hair, brushing it away from the collar of her leather jacket.   
  
“A wig?” he asks.  
  
Sydney shakes her head. “In the beginning, but not any more. Dye is easier.” She realizes this is the first time he’s actually seen her since she disappeared into this identity. He might have seen pictures, but he’s never seen Karen Sorensen before. Just then she remembers protocol, and reaches into her pocket for the tube of lipstick. One twist gives them three minutes of additional security.  
  
The noise of the club music is dampened by the walls that surround them now, but the sound still invades the room, enough to make them comfortable about speaking freely. Still, activating the interference device is standard procedure, and neither of them wants to take any chances.   
  
Jack nods, as if considering how long to delay the professional nature of their meet. She’s not sure what to say next, and so she says one of the few things she knows she can say.  
  
“Dad, we don’t have a lot of time...” she tells him gently.   
  
“I know, sweetheart.” He turns to remove an envelope from his jacket pocket, and she blinks hard against the endearment he offers her so easily. “Your updated SOP, all the new information. There’s a cell phone with upgraded security features, and a new bug killer as well,” he tells her as he hands over the small packet. She takes it and exchanges it for one she’s kept hidden inside her own pockets - written details and photographs the Agency will need.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“The CIA is still considering exactly how you should operate with Sark,” he adds briskly.  
  
She’s expected that this would come up, and she nods. Her last dead drop had a brief amount of detail on Evan Crane.   
  
“Any instructions in the mean time?” she asks.  
  
“For now, stay close. Find out all you can about the North American operations, the locations, the actors involved. You might be able to help us disarm a larger network than we'd originally thought.”  
  
She cringes inwardly at his words and the memories they allow to return. She never asked for another SD-6, and she never asked for Julian Sark. But she nods, understanding what this means for her mission.   
  
“Has he given you any indication of a threat?” he asks, and not just out of professional need.  
  
She’s touched that he asks, even though she knows this is as much a necessary question as fatherly concern. Her head shakes from side to side. “No. Not yet, at least.”  
  
“Do you think he might?”  
  
She doesn’t answer right away, just exhales for a moment as she considers her answer. “No...” she says finally, “I don’t think so. In fact, he seems different than he was before. Not just in the way he looks.”  
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
“I’m not sure if I can explain it,” she continues honestly, shrugging. “Before, whenever I came up against him, he always seemed so methodical and ambitious. But it wasn’t all serious for him, I think. It was like he was playing a game, and he enjoyed watching the pieces move when he changed something.  
  
“Now, though…He’s capable, but he doesn’t have the same kind of enthusiasm. There’s no doubt that he recognizes me, but he doesn’t seem interested in the past, not enough to try to play me somehow. It's like he's just here to do the job and that's all.”  
  
“Sydney, be careful with him,” Jack tells her quickly, concern rising in his voice. “Sark’s been invisible for nearly five years, there’s no telling what his plans are or how Faber fits into them. He could just be waiting for you to make the first mistake.”  
  
She nods back her understanding, hesitant about saying anything further.   
  
“Keep us updated as often as you can,” he tells her. “We might want to increase the frequency of your drops, but we don’t want to arouse suspicion, either. I’ll let you know the next time we meet.”   
  
Another nod. “I’ll do what I can,” she answers.   
  
There’s another pause, then, before Jack relays a few protocol changes. They’ve played out the professional necessities, now, and she takes the moment to shore up the courage to ask him about one of the only other people she thinks about from before.   
  
“How is he?” she asks.   
  
Five years ago she and Vaughn were together again. Four years ago, they were married. Skip ahead another two years and they were already separated, and the divorce was only made official about six months before she came to Berlin. She doesn’t like to dwell on it, nor is it something she’s proud of. But she can’t bring herself to detest Michael Vaughn. She’s not sure she’ll ever be able to do that.  
  
Jack’s eyes soften a little when he answers. “He requested a transfer to Langley two months ago,” he says. “I think Weiss still keeps in touch.”  
  
She nods, blinking again, and looks down this time as she puts her hands back in her jacket pockets. “Tell Weiss I said hello,” she responds, and knows that Weiss will take that message whatever way he wants to take it.   
  
“I will.”  
  
Their meeting is coming to an end, now. Three minutes have almost passed.   
  
“Good luck, Sydney,” he tells her, and holds her again. The love that underwrites that statement is clear as daylight, and it makes her swallow hard against the emotion welling in her throat as she responds.   
  
“Thanks, Dad. Good luck to you too.” She would say so much more to him if she had the time, and lets him press his arms around her more tightly than he ever has before. For a few seconds longer, she is simply his daughter, and nothing more.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
Faber flies Karen Sorensen and Evan Crane to Moscow a couple of weeks later, a necessary detail since the American operations are rapidly coming to fruition, and he needs the loyalty of as many suppliers as possible.   
  
Sark walks a few steps behind Sydney as they make their way into the dim warehouse not far from the landing site. It’s only mid-afternoon, but the weather is grey and cool, and the shadows indoors run darker and longer than usual.   
  
Still, she’s calm when they approach and she registers the very familiar face of their contact. She wonders if he’s the same as he ever was. Perhaps he’s had a change of heart. It’s amazing the kind of reputation Faber carries, and she knows the influence that one botched job can have.   
  
The man smiles towards them, now apparently very eager to see her.   
  
“Karen, my darling,” he greets her in accented English. “It is lovely to do business with you again. It's been too long since I've seen you...” He glances up then, noticing Sark behind her, and his attention shifts between the two of them. Eventually he settles again on Sydney. “You have some requests for shipment, am I right?”  
  
She answers briskly, pulling out a list from the inside of her jacket. “Our employer would like these delivered to New York as soon as possible. Within a month at the latest,” she adds, before handing him another envelope. “You’ll find the necessary instructions for delivery in here.”  
  
He’s nodding, scanning the list only briefly. "Of course, of course," he answers, maintaining his enthusiasm.   
  
Sydney hands him another piece of paper, separate from the original order. "We'd also like to have these items waiting for us here before we return to Berlin tonight. Faber requests samples of the new prototypes, and we'd appreciate a few extra supplies for the moment."  
  
She expects him to act as he has done every other time she's made last minute requests for Faber - with indignation or irritation. But this time he nods, taking both pieces of paper in his hand and passing them to his associate. His man takes the lists and steps away to the far doorway, dialing a few numbers on his cell phone. He closes the brief gap between them, a relaxed smile on his face.  
  
"Karen, my dear..." he tries again. "It's so good to see you again. I never miss seeing your face..."  
  
Of course, it's not her face upon which his eyes linger. One of his hands settles on her hip, and as he turns his gaze back to her face she catches the scent of alcohol on his breath, sour in the still air of the warehouse. She closes her eyes, briefly, steadying herself for her response. There are few things in the world she has as little patience for as this.   
  
"Kindly remove your hand," she says, "Or I'll remove it for you." She listens behind her, but Sark doesn't approach or offer protest on her behalf, and she experiences an inward moment of annoyance and impatience.   
  
"Come now, Karen, I thought we were friends, d-"  
  
She doesn't wait to hear if it will be "darling" or "dear" or "dearest" that leaves his lips next. Her fist makes contact with his wrist before he can manage anything else. She follows the punch with a knee between his legs, and he doubles over with a grunt of surprise.   
  
"We're flying out at eight o'clock sharp," she says. "Have the supplies and the delivery manifests waiting for us by then. We'll be waiting for your call."  
  
And with that, she turns and strides away from him, past Sark who as far as she can tell hasn't moved an inch since they arrived. She marches through the exit and is vaguely aware of their contact and his bodyguard shouting Russian expletives after her. Sark turns away swiftly and follows when she's out the door.   
  
They're almost thirty yards away before it occurs to her that she doesn't know where their next destination is just yet, but she keeps walking anyhow. Finally she glances towards her partner.   
  
"Thanks for your help," she tells him, bitter sarcasm evident in her tone.   
  
"You seemed to be handling yourself just fine," he responds evenly, perhaps even slightly amused.   
  
She feels a frustrated warmth spreading across her cheeks, and can think of little else to say in answer.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
Sark continues his now-weekly visits to Berlin. Sydney accepts her duties along with his presence, and decides she might as well take the lead rather than waiting for him to drop precious details across meeting rooms or in dark storage facilities.   
  
On the day when she's trying to figure out how she can ask him to lunch with her and not seem overly interested, Faber solves the problem for her.  
  
"You've been doing so well with Evan," he tells her, "I want you two to go and celebrate."  
  
This kind of generosity doesn't come from Faber very often, and she expresses her skepticism. "You can't be serious."  
  
"Of course I am, my dear. Business has never been better, and I have the two of you to thank for it." He hands her a card, the address of a very upscale restaurant downtown - one she must have walked by dozens of times and never considered for more than a few seconds. "You've got reservations for eight at the Adlon," he tells her, and pats her waist amiably. "My expense."  
  
The expression she returns is flat, as if she'd much rather be drinking bad coffee and eating overcooked sausages at the stand on the corner two blocks away. As it is, the coffee in the mug she holds in her hand is already too strong, and she'd give her eyeteeth for a proper _Sachertorte_ to go with it.   
  
Some days the only good thing about deep cover is the ability to actually stop and experience the mission locations from time to time. She takes a second glance at the card and reminds herself of that very fact.   
  
"I'm not sure this is really my style," she says evenly, burying any visible interest.  
  
"Maybe the restaurant isn't," he allows, "But I thought he might be." He winks at her as if he's known what's best for her all along.  
  
Sydney glances up again quickly, indignation burning in her cheeks. She's still reeling from the suggestion, but doesn't give herself any time to register if it was an accurate one. The coffee splashes onto his face and down the collar of his shirt, and she angrily sets the mug down on his desk as she walks from the room.   
  
"For God's sake, Karen, everyone needs a night out _sometime_ ," he scoffs at her as she leaves.   
  
She doesn't turn back to respond, only hurls the door open without bothering to stop it from hitting the wall.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
An hour passes in her apartment before she stops fuming and finally gives in. _What the hell. I have to eat._ Once she overcomes her frustration over a man like Faber trying to show off for her, she reminds herself that, regardless of any other context, tonight could be very useful. If Sark becomes more comfortable with her, that would make her ultimate task a great deal easier, and if she happens to have a fine meal at the same time, so much the better.  
  
Vaguely she wonders if this is another one of Faber's ideas of a test, but she brushes the thought aside. He's had months to test her with Sark, and he's obviously already decided she's passed the grade, otherwise she wouldn't be standing here tonight searching her closet for something appropriate to wear. The hooks and hangers reveal little variety in colour or cut, and so there is a very short list of selections to choose from for what she can easily wear to this particular restaurant.  
  
 _At least black never goes out of style_ , she muses. The dress she finds behind a faded jacket hasn't been worn in months, but it's clean and still stylish and clings to her in all the right places. She pulls it on, becoming pleasantly accustomed to the feel of the smooth fabric on her skin.   
  
For a moment she considers her reflection in the mirror and wonders if it's enough. At last she shakes away the last of her criticisms and brushes the last tangles out of her long hair. A moment later she's grabbing her handbag and swallowing her pride and locking the door behind her.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
_"Put off that mask of burning gold  
With emerald eyes."  
  
"O no, my dear, you make so bold  
To find if hearts be wild and wise,  
And yet not cold."  
  
~v1, 'The Mask'_  
  
* * * * *   
  
He’s already there when she arrives, but says nothing about her lack of punctuality. Sark simply stands to greet her before graciously pulling away her chair for her, at the elegant corner table near the window. There are candles on each table, and the scene is inviting. She nods back with equal politesse, and gratefully takes her seat.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“My pleasure.”   
  
He sits down opposite her, allowing himself a brief moment to adjust his jacket and tie. Watching that small gesture makes her smile, and she finds herself reclining and carrying on as if this evening was simply one of many.  
  
“Have you already ordered?” There’s a bottle of wine on the table and his glass is only half full. A waiter appears just then and offers her a menu, which she accepts and opens.  
  
“Not yet,” he answers. “Just the wine.”  
  
A glance at the bottle on the table reveals his selection as a local Dornfelder, and she registers her approval with a nod as she begins to glance through the menu. It’s been raining outside, and her pulse still races a little from her dash across the street when she left her taxi.   
  
Slowly, she inhales and exhales as she takes in her surroundings. Her confidence returns by the time she exhales a second time, and she makes her selection before closing the menu again. The waiter returns to take their order and fill both of their glasses, then leaves them alone once more.   
  
Sydney's forgotten how long it’s been since she’s had this fine a meal. Faber has seen that she doesn’t lack for compensation, but companionship has been harder.  
  
She reaches for her glass and takes a welcome sip. The wine is very good. Its taste is smooth and inviting at first, becoming stronger as it curls around her tongue. She takes an appreciative look at her glass as she swallows, and then a second, brief sip before setting down the glass. When she looks back at Sark, he's raised his glass as well, affording her an uninterrupted moment to take in his appearance.   
  
In the weeks and months she's been obliged to work with this man, she has discovered little about him that is very surprising. His precision in all things is the same as she remembers, along with the wit that sharpens his conversation. And yet, there is a strength and maturity about him that she doesn't remember from before - something in the way he speaks and carries himself that is different. It's not just that his appearance has changed.   
  
_Perhaps it's just age_ , she thinks, and then suddenly wonders what he might be thinking of her. She considers whether the same years have been harsher to her, and reaches a tentative hand to push a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She blinks, picking up her wine again, and the next thought that crosses her mind is that here, right now, she'd probably answer just about any question he would ask. The thought makes her numb, and her fingers suddenly lose sensation of the glass she holds. _Would he do the same for her?_  
  
He speaks first. "Have you dined here before?"  
  
Another glance around the room, a brief shake of her head. "No, this is the first time. I don't spend many evenings out."  
  
Sark seems a little surprised. "I find that hard to believe in such a vibrant city."  
  
She shrugs briefly. "I've visited a few restaurants, the occasional nightclub," she says. _And once in a while, a secret dead drop or covert phone call in a shady back alley_. "I like walking, mostly."  
  
His eyebrows lift slightly, as if he hadn't expected that answer from her. He leans towards the table more casually, expecting her to continue. "Anywhere in particular?"  
  
Sydney puts down her glass once more, considering this. "Just about anywhere in the _Mitte_ , really. The old cathedral is beautiful at sunset," she finds herself saying. "So are the botanical gardens. Sometimes I go jogging." She tilts her head, slightly, looking back at him. "And what about you? Do you take much time for yourself when you're here?"  
  
"Some," he admits. "Although I'm sure you're aware of how challenging that can be in our line of work."  
  
"Of course," she answers, no desire to elaborate on that particular comment just yet.  
  
"I do agree, it is a striking city to experience on foot."  
  
She wonders what she should or could say next, since she has no desire to discuss their professional activities in one of Berlin's finest establishments, nor is she inclined to speak of their past in any way that is remotely obvious. She sips from her wine again, and he does the same. Another minute passes, and the waiter arrives with their salads.   
  
Glad of the brief reprieve, and suddenly aware of her appetite, she sets down her glass and pulls the serviette gently across her lap. The waiter refills their glasses courteously and is gone once again. She's just reaching for her fork when Sark's next comment catches her unprepared.   
  
"Faber seems protective of you." He is curious, watching her reaction as he inquires.  
  
"Yes, he is." The curtness returns to her voice. She hadn't expected an observation of that nature, at least not this late in the game.  
  
His head tilts slightly. "I've always wondered why. He certainly never -" Sark pauses then, as if rethinking how he frames that sentence. "You don't seem like the kind of woman who would be interested in him on more than a professional level."  
  
Her eyes flash back at him, dark in the candlelight. "You're right, I'm not."  
  
"Then why should he be protective of you?"   
  
She's still deciding some things as she considers her answer. Since that first veiled conversation, neither of them has made any moves towards an explanation of any part of their lives.   
  
Until tonight, this hasn't worried her. But the man sitting opposite her is the only person available in her life who can help her bridge that gap between then and now, and even if his loyalties are suspect and his ambitions even more so, somehow it's a tempting enough offer. This is the closest she's come to companionship in so very, very long.   
  
_Companionship_ , she considers. _Is that what this is?_ With a slow gesture she replaces her fork next to her plate and glances back at him, ever curious at his ease around her. She blinks, realizing then that the answer to his question is much easier than she thought. "Because I don't want him to be," she answers simply. "I don't need him to be, either."  
  
He lifts his eyebrows as he registers this, and nods back. One by one, cards are being laid down, and he starts to see where the boundaries will lie among them.   
  
They hold each other's gaze for a moment. Only the ambient noise of the restaurant surrounds them, and, even if slightly, the tension between them seems to have dissipated. Sydney raises her glass again as she breaks her glance, and a calm breath escapes her lips. The rest of their meal passes in relative silence, their conversation sporadic and calm compared to the curiosity that lies waiting beneath. Later, she won't remember most of their words.   
  
She can only guess at the rest of the questions he might ask her - about her life before she came to Berlin, why she left, why she does anything. She might ask him a few things too, starting with how he escaped that fire in Taipei, or what he really does in London when he's not here working with her and Faber. But they're both hesitant, and she's willing to keep it that way for now.   
  
It is still raining when they leave the restaurant. They leave in separate taxis, but not before he walks out with her to the exit.   
  
When they move through the doors into the damp night air, she feels the slightest touch of his hand at her back, but does not turn to look at him as she steps into the cab. As the driver starts to pull away she turns then to glance towards him, lifting her hand slightly as if to wave. But by then, he has turned away as well, and the last she sees is him lifting the collar of his jacket against the wind, before walking away to find a taxi of his own.   
  
  
* * * * *


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sydney and Sark continue their dance, and a car chase proves illuminating.

* * * * *   
  
The next time Sydney speaks with her father it's a few weeks after that first dinner with Sark. She waits calmly at a café just off the _Ku'damm_ , which is already bustling with the activities of late-season tourists and weekend shoppers. There's a pay phone just steps away which she is to visit in a few minutes, after she hears it ring once.   
  
As she waits she sips at her _Milchkaffee_ and considers the crowds from her vantage point. Her eyes catch on a middle-aged couple, then a man walking by himself with a map in one hand, and then a young woman holding hands with a girl who looks about nine or ten years old. She wonders how long they've been in Berlin, what they're all looking for. _Probably shopping. The Charlottenburg, maybe the museums or the Oranienplatz, certainly the wall…_  
  
Suddenly Sydney sets down her coffee and realizes suddenly that she herself hasn't even seen these things, even the remnants of the Berlin Wall. More than a year and a half in this city and the main attraction itself is something that never even appeared relevant to her. She takes a moment and relaxes a little and takes another warm sip from her cup. _You're not a tourist, Syd, get over it. You're not here to see the sights, you're here for the long haul._  
  
Nevertheless, a dull ache stays with her as she hears the ringing phone a few moments later. She stands and leaves her cup sitting empty at her place.   
  
She picks up the phone on the fifth ring of the second call, as she's been instructed. _"Guten Tag,"_ she answers.  
  
"Sydney," her father answers. "This line is secure. It's good to hear your voice," he says, his own tone softening.   
  
"Thanks," she says, pausing briefly. "Yours, too. What's happening?" she asks, keeping things brisk. She's anxious to know what she'll have to prepare for.  
  
"I'll be brief," he tells her. "Our timetable is continuing ahead of schedule. We've planned to intercept Faber's communication network within the next two weeks in at least one, possibly two locations.   
  
She knows what this means. The CIA has enough to go on to tap into the system, and if it's happening now then they must be anxious to make a move. God knows she is.   
  
"Why sooner? Why not wait according to the original plan?" She keeps her voice steady and as quiet as possible. Despite the bugkiller in her ring that presses against the telephone receiver, she's not ready to start drawing too much attention to her conversation. Her left hand stretches out in front of her as she examines her fingernails and tries to look as though she's making plans for dinner.  
  
"There is considerable…pressure for results. Apparently the payoff expectation has not been met according to schedule."  
  
Those words hang in the air between them, and Sydney feels a knot of anxiety curl tighter inside her. She wonders if she's been doing something wrong, or if the NSA or someone else has been strong-arming the CIA brass. Either way, her cheeks darken and the tone of her voice becomes bitter.  
  
"If there are any standards that I haven't been fulfilling, I would hope to be informed right away," she says pointedly.   
  
"Sydney, I assure you," Jack tells her, "you're doing just fine. The Task Force feels that there is enough to go on to make a move sooner than expected, and so that's what we're doing."  
  
There's a pause, and Sydney exhales quietly.  
  
"I know, Dad, it's just…I know I chose this assignment, but that doesn't mean I want to do this forever," she says, ducking her head as she leans inside the phone booth. "I want to bring him down as much as anyone," she adds hopefully. "I want this to end."  
  
"It will end, Sydney," he tells her immediately. "We'll make sure that it does."  
  
When she hangs up the phone a minute later, her hand lingers briefly on the receiver.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
The weeks go by and she and Sark continue their dance, each playing the roles they have chosen for themselves. Now, these roles seem to embody a kind of comfortable respect, or perhaps even something verging on friendship.   
  
Most days, lately, she ends up working with him in some capacity, and Faber regularly dispatches them as a team to make arrangements on his behalf. His operation spans two continents now, and Sydney starts to wonder with each new assignment whether or not her covert presence will come to an end, and when Faber will fall.   
  
She's had to become more strategic in her dead drops these days, as their workload is increasing rapidly along with Faber's ambition. Unfortunately, he hasn't seen the need to send her to tend his American assets in person, for some reason preferring to keep her on the European side of the business. Nonetheless, she's started to wonder whether or not Faber trusts her any more than he used to. Her mind takes her back to these thoughts as she returns from Prague on a job given to her alone.   
  
Tonight Faber's sent her by herself, because it's only a matter of hours for her to make the flight and take the meeting and then head back again. She could easily have taken the train or driven herself, but he insisted she take a private flight instead. The assignment goes smoothly, easily, and she's back across the German border in the dark hours of the morning, her falsified documents making it easy for a Canadian diplomat named Shelley Crawford to breeze through without a fuss. It's early, not even dawn yet, but she's stopped questioning the hours Faber and his associates keep.  
  
Just after landing in Berlin, she glances at her cell phone and notices she's missed a call. The screen tells her the number is unknown, and it doesn't take her too long to guess who the call was from. Her father was expected to meet with her next week to debrief her on what they'd learned from the CIA's surveillance, but this call must mean the meeting has been moved up. She checks her watch - it's just after five thirty in the morning, and dawn will come soon.  
  
Protocol requires her to phone in five hours following such a call. She'll have to bide her time until then, and she feels a knot of worry form in her stomach. This has never happened before.   
  
She leaves the plane and makes her way to the parking lot where she left her car less than twenty-four hours ago. It's been a somewhat extravagant expense, keeping a vehicle of her own in such a large city, but it's on nights such as these that she's glad for it. Tram service and taxis can be sporadic this early in the day.  
  
Out of habit, she does a quick scan of the vehicle to be sure of its - and her own - security. She deposits her bag in the trunk and drives away without incident.  
  
Pulling out from the airport, she heads south on the Autobahn, accelerating fairly leisurely as the still-dark highway reveals only a moderate amount of traffic. After a few minutes, she futily attempts to stifle a yawn, and it occurs to her how little sleep she's had in the past day and night. She'll be glad to make her report to Faber and then head back to her apartment for a warm bath and a rest.  
  
The wind starts to pick up a little, and she shivers needlessly at the audible indication of the changing weather. It's the middle of November, and autumn is fading into winter.  
  
In a few minutes the road will curve to the southwest and then the south again and she'll leave the Autobahn to travel east along Bismarckstrasse, back towards the _Potsdamer Platz_ and Faber's office. She wonders if he'll be there in person, or if she'll simply type her report then and there and leave a copy for him on his desk to review when he comes in. It's been harder to tell what he's going to do next, even on small details, and it unsettles her a little more each time she tries to predict such things.   
  
She changes lanes and glances in her mirror, breaking away from her thoughts. It's then that she notices the pair of headlights several car lengths behind her, following her into her lane. A minute later the same car is there, and is the same distance away.  
  
 _Might be nothing_ , She tells herself. _Probably nothing._ Although the road hasn't been busy, nor has she been alone by any means, and has even been passed by a few other drivers. Under normal circumstances she wouldn't feel nervous at all, but a nagging thought in the back of her mind takes her back to the small doubts she was just trying to stop worrying about. _What if it's not nothing? Who is it?._  
  
On instinct she changes lanes again and glances back into the previous lane, and observes the same car mimic her movements once again. _All right,_ she thinks. _This isn't going to be an ordinary trip to the office._ She's just within reach of an exit and even though it's not the one she was planning on taking, she takes it quickly, now travelling south towards Kaiserin-Augusta-Allee.   
  
Sure enough, as she pulls away from the exit the car's there behind her again. Sydney grips the steering wheel and speeds up a little. Now, that small knot of anxiety deepens and twists into worry and fear. Her mind takes her through a catalogue of suspicions, as she wonders who could have sent someone to follow her, and why. None of the options she can think of are appealing. _Damn it. I shouldn't have let this happen._  
  
If she takes the turn on Kaiserin-Augusta she'll still be following a probable route for heading back to the office. _Just perhaps a little faster than usual_ , she tells herself. Her pursuer matches her turn and this time she notices that the distance between them has decreased slightly.  
  
Sydney turns left again at the earliest chance, taking a smaller street east. This time when she looks in the mirror she sees the familiar pair of headlights, yet again decreasing the distance between them. _Shit._   
  
Almost without thinking she reaches for her phone, fumbling to find the headset and slip it over her ear for easier communication. She needs help, she needs someone close, and she needs it now. Quickly, she dials the number before she has a chance to second-guess herself. Another turn to the right and she shifts her gears as she returns to a higher speed, waiting for someone to pick up.   
  
"Yes?" Sark's voice answers as clear as a bell, and there isn't time for her to wonder if she has woken or interrupted him.   
  
"It's me, Karen," she spits out, no time to make sure whether or not she needed to clarify with a name. "I just got in from Prague. I left the airport a few minutes ago. Right now I'm just north of Kaiserin-Augusta and I might have a tail on me, are you close?"  
  
She knows Sark lives to the south of where she is in the Charlottenburg area, theoretically only a few minutes away. She also knows she's putting an incredible amount of trust in his answer - too much, she thinks, given how little they've truly revealed to each other - but right now he's her closest option.  
  
There's a brief pause before he answers, long enough for her to glance over her shoulder and watch the headlights in her rear view shine a little brighter than they did before. The car's moving faster, approaching at speed. She turns right again, now travelling south.   
  
"Are you certain?" he asks.  
  
"Of course I'm certain," she nearly shouts back. She grips the steering wheel as she takes the corner and turns to the east along Kaiserin-Augusta. The tires screech just a little as she comes out of the left turn, and her pulse quickens further.   
  
"Where are you?" She can hear sounds of movement along with the question.  
  
"I just turned east," she says as she accelerates again, "and I'm heading towards Faber's office." She takes her bearings and realizes with a start that, while she's still on a plausible enough route to head towards the office, she's blocked to the south by the Spree river.   
  
"I might need to turn off and head north if I can't shake them," she tells him across the phone. "Whoever this is, they're following even closer and the bridge across the river is still a few minutes away." She manages to shift into a higher gear and presses her foot to the gas pedal, as hard and as fast as she can without spinning into another turn. Right now the roads are as clear as they'll ever be, which not only risks making her pursuer a little obvious but allows her a straight path ahead.   
  
When she glances back at her mirror the same pair of headlights is behind her, matching her route changes easily. _Shit._ She needs to get off this straightaway.   
  
"No, wait," she hears him respond. She can hear a bit of static and it sounds as though he's moved outside. He must be coming her way now. "Keep going, I think it'll be faster for me to get to you there." His voice is authoritative, purposeful. _He's going to help._  
  
Her heart's in her throat as she swerves again, this time more abruptly than the last turn and at such a fast angle that her rear wheels spin and slide in a vain effort to keep the car steady. She pulls ahead of a car in the middle lane and adjusts the shift again and she's on her way, speeding as fast as she possibly can.   
  
She enjoys a moment of pleasure as she watches the car behind her stagger and swerve to catch her again, and the next time she notices him in her rear view mirror, he's at least a full block away. But the fear still stings at her and her firm grip on the steering wheel is one of the only things keeping her hands from trembling. _Come on, Bristow, you've done this sort of thing before._  
  
"He's a little behind now but he'll catch up again," she tells Sark. "Where are you?" There hasn't been any sound in her earpiece besides a few scrapes and shuffles, and she guesses - hopes - that he's on the road now.   
  
"I'm coming towards you now, but I'm still a few minutes away," he tells her, and she curses inwardly in impatience. "Take the bridge south and take the first left onto Franklinstrasse. It'll distract them for a moment and I'll try to get to you before you get too far south."  
  
"Right," she answers quickly, and as impatient as she is, the bridge crossing can't come soon enough. The familiar pair of headlights is gaining on her once more. She finally makes it to the right turn and shifts abruptly as she swerves across two lanes of traffic to get to the bridge. "Where are you now?" She guesses Sark must have been coming from his place after all, which would put him a few minutes away from her, still.   
  
"Bundesallee, just crossing the Ku'damm now." She can hear noise in the background and guesses that he didn't stop very lawfully at that intersection. Her lungs contract and she takes in a deep breath almost involuntarily, focusing her senses on the road ahead. "Is he still there?"  
  
Her mind races as she glances back. "Yes, and he's getting closer." Another gear shift. "I'm coming up on the University now and I'm going to cut through and see if I can lose him." She congratulates herself on the snap decision, since it's a Sunday morning and it's unlikely many people will be there so early today.   
  
"Got it," he answers, as if cataloging her movements in his head. "See if you can wind through to just west of campus. I should intersect with you in another minute."  
  
 _Great._ "Okay." She turns abruptly again, left this time along the Einsteinufer. She's skirting the northern edge of the campus and is starting to contemplate turning in to it altogether and winding through the parking lots and quadrangles regardless of where the roads are.   
  
At least, that's what crosses her mind until she hears the glass of her windshield puncture and break behind her. Startled, she ducks as low as she can, keeping the steering wheel steady and looks behind her. As she thought, her assailant has fired a shot at her, and she hears a second one fast behind it. _Come on, Sark, where the hell are you…_  
  
She swerves again, adrenaline rushing through her, and then swerves a second time. She's almost at the western edge of the campus, and soon there will be very little surrounding her other than railroad tracks and a few scattered buildings. Her gun is stashed in the glove compartment next to her, but she's not sure if she can reach it in time to make the next turn. Her pursuer is only a couple of car lengths behind her now, close enough to make a relatively precise shot.   
  
Just as she's turning left again onto the narrow Hertzallee, she catches a glimpse of another car approaching from the other direction. She's startled enough to almost run her car off the road in order to get out of the way, until she recognizes the car as Sark's.   
  
Sure enough, it's him, and no sooner has she recognized this fact then she sees him roll down the window and fire a single shot past her vehicle at her assailant. Sark hits his target - the front tire of the car behind her - and the car swerves away. This won't be enough, however, and Sark knows it. He makes no effort to slow his pace, and collides directly with the left bumper of the other car.  
  
The pursuing vehicle snaps back, spiraling and striking a nearby tree, and Sark brakes quickly, before backing up to get a clear shot at him once more. Sark's weapon extends from his window once again and fires two more shots, directly into the man's chest. Sydney's swerved back around behind Sark by now, in time to see the unknown attacker breathe his last gasp. Sark fires a fourth shot into the rear of the car, and Sydney knows he's aimed for the gas tank.   
  
She reverses, putting several more yards between herself and that car, and watches Sark do the same. If he shoots again, the whole works will be set on fire, and in a matter of minutes the vehicle won't be recognizable.   
  
Sydney watches as he turns to look back at her from his window, his weapon still at the ready and aimed at his earlier target. She nods, the only sign she needs to give him, and watches as he fires once more.   
  
For a few seconds she has a clear view of the flames that engulf the vehicle, and she feels her breath shake from her chest. And then, she's turning her car again, and driving away with Sark following her this time, just as the dim light of dawn begins to break.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
At first she drives fast again, on impulse, but then slows down once she's farther away from the scene and convinces herself she can do so. After several minutes of driving south she eventually pulls off down an alley near the Yorckstrasse where the railway tracks end. When she finally shuts off the ignition she's shaking slightly as she leans back in her seat. One, two, and then three deep breaths, and she reaches for the door.  
  
She steps out of the car and shuts the door, watching Sark do the same.   
  
"Are you all right?" he asks as he exits his vehicle. He closes the door hard before walking over to her. He's still holding his weapon in his hand, but as he approaches her she can hear the click as he returns the safety lock. By the time he reaches her he's tucked it back into his holster.   
  
Sydney nods, still a little breathless. "Yeah, I'm okay," she answers, looking down at her clothes and checking for any wounds.  
  
"You're hurt," he notices, stepping close enough to reach out and place a hand on her arm. A bullet must have grazed her, and this is the first that she's noticed it. There's a tear cutting right through her jacket and the shirt beneath, and a red streak arcs across her skin. It's a mild flesh wound, nothing that won't mend.   
  
"It's fine," she answers, pressing her fingers to the spot just below her shoulder. "I'll be fine." She winces a little as the sting registers to her senses. And still, he's got his hand on her arm, his gaze trained on the wound and then on her face, as if still verifying her condition for himself. Sydney glances back at him, long enough to notice that his own breathing is still a little shaky.   
  
"What about you?" She lets her eyes travel quickly along his body, confirming that he hasn't been harmed. He follows her actions and comes to the same conclusion as she, that he wasn't injured.   
  
"Nothing," he confirms. Still, his hand rests lightly at her arm, and their gaze meets once more.   
  
It's been a long time since she's had to get herself out of a situation like this, and she's wrestling between gratitude to Sark for helping her, and frustration that she let herself get into such a problem in the first place. For the moment, she decides that gratitude is the better option, and can't help but feel impressed that the Sark in front of her now seems much more like the Sark she remembers. When he catches her gaze she doesn't falter or turn away, but holds his eye as his fingers loosen their grip just a little.   
  
"Thank you." Her voice is more calm now, her tone almost gentle. He pauses, the faintest bit of surprise evident in his expression. Clearly he wasn't expecting to be told this outright, which makes her all the more curious over his concern for her.   
  
She feels like every part of her is vibrating somehow, in that unique combination of fear and exhilaration followed by relief. He's close enough to her now that she can feel the warmth of his breath on her skin, no small detail in the brisk fall air. A thousand thoughts dash through her mind and she can't catch hold of any of them.   
  
And so just then she's not sure what it is about that moment that makes her lean closer to him.   
  
Perhaps it's simply that she's coming down from the adrenaline rush that accompanies escape, or recovering from the relative embarrassment of asking him for help, and needing a sense of control again...   
  
Perhaps it's the style of his jacket, falling open to reveal the smooth dark sweater he wears that makes her wonder about the skin and muscle beneath... His cheek, pink from exertion and the chill in the air, and the slight roughness along his jawline that's just visible now in the early light of dawn... His hand, now rising away from her arm and making her suddenly eager for his touch...  
  
Whatever the reason, Sydney takes the chance and as she feels him starting to move away, she grasps his lapels only seconds before pressing her lips achingly against his.   
  
If her gratitude didn't catch him by surprise, she's certain that this does. Nonetheless, it takes only a few seconds for him to respond. He does so willingly, matching the urgency and intensity of her kiss with his own desire. His hands wrap around her waist and find their way underneath her jacket, and she's just starting to get used to the idea of what's going on when she finds the side of the car suddenly against her back. It's just as well, since the stability of her legs is gradually fading, and she welcomes the support.  
  
Sark's now about as close to her as he can be. Her lips open against the pressure of his, and as the roughness of his tongue slides against hers she feels warmth start to radiate in places she'd forgotten about. A heated pulse deepens within her as his fingers slip beneath her clothing and slide along the curve of her back. She plunders his lips and mouth in response, her own hands gripping his shoulders beneath his jacket collar. Her injury and the preceding chase are all but forgotten in her mind.  
  
Finally they part, gasping a little. She's not sure what to say, or if she should say anything, which is fine for now since he's the one who speaks first. The very idea of kissing him is enough for her to take in all at once, and the immediacy of their response to each other takes her by surprise.  
  
"If this is your idea..." he breathes, his lips still only a breath away from hers, "Of thanking me..."   
  
Her mouth starts to curve into a smile as she marvels at their extraordinary situation. Moments ago she feared for her very safety and within seconds they've made those memories virtually disappear.  
  
"And if it is?" she asks him, sudden playfulness barely evident in her voice.   
  
His face starts to mirror hers, a smile beginning to lighten his expression. Apparently it doesn't matter one way or the other to him what her reason is. This time he's the one to initiate the kiss, just as quickly and hungrily as she did before.   
  
He doesn't wait for any further cues from her about where or what or how far. Before she can think about any of those things he lets his lips travel - first along the edge of her jaw, then lower as he traces the curve of her neck. Her breath begins to leave her in shallow waves, and her fingers thread through the hair at the base of his neck.  
  
His fingers slide back up her torso, finding the buttons on her shirt and unfastening them swiftly. A trail of moist heat is gathering in the path of his mouth, making her shiver despite the growing perspiration on her skin. He slips his hands back underneath her clothing and she realizes now how completely she is losing herself here in his arms.   
  
"I don't…" she starts to say, stretching back as his lips travel farther down her torso and his hands continue their ministrations. Her legs are barely holding her now. "Not...in the open..." she manages. He murmurs a response against her skin, something she can't quite make out, but she feels it resonate through her and warm her from deep within her belly.   
  
Even as she breathes her request she recognizes its futility, since anyone who wanted to catch them like this might have found their satisfaction by now. It's not the visual repercussions that worry her, it's the control that she feels fading from her with every second that passes and every stroke of his tongue and lips against her skin and every touch of her fingers on his body.   
  
She feels his hands slipping underneath her jacket again, touching skin that should feel far more chilled, out here in the cool grey dawn. Her lip quivers, and her hands reach for him without any further encouragement. His lips find hers again, and the kiss holds no hesitation. Her voice doesn't belong to Karen Sorensen anymore, and she's not even sure it belongs to Sydney Bristow, and if she stays one more moment where she is right now she's not sure who she'll be able to hold responsible for her actions.   
  
And so it isn't her voice that interrupts them, at first. Mustering as much restraint as she can, she pulls away from him abruptly, turning her body out of his grasp and twisting her lips from his. One hand rests against the car, the other pulls her jacket closed. He stands slightly amazed, his expression a thrilled mixture of surprise at their coming together and disappointment over their separation.   
  
"I can't…Faber will be expecting me," she explains, the words tumbling awkwardly as she shakes her head and tries to focus. "I have to report back." She gestures towards the car, indicating the exchange she made only hours ago, the brief mission that was supposed to be the easiest night in the world. Her hand brushes across her forehead and she closes her eyes briefly, trying to make sense of what has just happened.   
  
He nods back, understanding. She's still considering what to say next, and she watches him adjust his own jacket and run his hands through his hair. He's considering something, too.  
  
"I'll go with you," he says resolutely. If he's at all surprised over any part of the events of the last hour, he doesn't reveal it now. Instead, he's focused again, returning his thoughts to rational order.   
  
She's already shaking her head. "This wasn't your assignment, if we go in together--"  
  
"If we go in together then it will be much easier to explain that I had to help you get rid of whoever was in pursuit of you just now," he says firmly, one arm gesturing at the road behind the buildings that surround them. He steps closer, looking into her eyes and leaving her no room for doubt. "I'm going with you," he repeats, and opens the passenger-side door beside her. "And I'll drive."  
  
  
* * * * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation with Faber and a meeting with Sydney's father. A cover story starts to become reality.

* * * * *   
  
  
By the time the two of them stride into Faber's office, they find he is already waiting for them. Or at least, waiting for Sydney. Sark stands by as she begins to explain what happened, how the exchange in Prague went as planned, but there must have been someone tracking her. When she was a few minutes away from the airport, it became clear someone was following her.   
  
Faber allows her to explain this much, taking in her disheveled appearance and tossing more than one curious glance at Sark.   
  
"Why didn't you call me sooner?" he asks, a valid question indeed. "Your flight landed two hours ago." Sydney knows her answer, but it's not one she's about to give. She's taken in Faber's cool appearance and disinterest and known immediately that it was he who sent someone to follow her. What she's still trying to figure out is why. _What does he suspect?_  
  
She blinks, takes in a breath.   
  
"Evan was the first person I could think of," she tells him, and it's not an altogether dishonest answer. She takes care to speak of him by his first name, "I knew he was in town and that he might be close enough to help." Another breath in, as she glances at her latest, unpredictable ally.   
  
Faber turns to Sark, as if waiting for further explanation. It's as though he's waiting for his suspicion to come to rest on one of them, but it isn't working. Sark gives a simple shrug and answers briefly.   
  
"It's as she says. I don't know who was following her, but they were making a very thorough pursuit. If I hadn't been able to intervene, I'm not sure Karen would have made it." Just then Sark glances back at Sydney, and all she wants to do is close the short distance that separates them.   
  
But instead she merely nods, confirming what he has just told their employer, and they both turn back towards Faber. He stares back at both of them coldly, accusingly. He pushes back from his desk and stands, walking around his desk to face them more closely.   
  
"A few weeks ago, my security team began noticing some minor breaches in our system, particularly the American locations," he tells them. "Nothing major, at least not yet. For a while, they assumed it was a simple matter of increasing communications firewalls, preventing hackers, this sort of thing." He scratches at his chin, folds his arms. "And then, about a week ago they noticed similar activity, only this time it wasn't just in the American sites, there were problems with our European network as well."  
  
Sydney's stomach turns to ice as she listens. There's no doubt now, he suspects her as a source of the security leak. And with good reason. The timeline he's describing matches perfectly with the anticipated surveillance plan the CIA was intending to initiate. Clearly, Faber's network is much harder to breach than they suspected.   
  
"So naturally, I have to assume that someone has broken into my system. At first," Faber continues, "I didn't want to suspect either of you. You've been more committed to your positions than anyone else who's ever worked for me. Nonetheless, for the past week I've taken it upon myself to request surveillance of both of your communications. After all, you two are the ones who have the most intimate knowledge of my operations. I had hoped my suspicions would be proved wrong, but unfortunately that wasn't the case."   
  
He turns to look directly at Sydney. "Two hours ago, as you were returning from Prague, the security team picked up an unidentified cell phone signal, directed to you."  
  
She looks back at Faber in surprise, remembering the missed call she received as the flight landed. At the time she hadn't been able to answer the phone, and she had not planned to respond until after she returned to Berlin. As it was, she wouldn't have responded directly to an unknown caller, anyhow - it was most likely that the caller was her father, or someone else from the CIA, and part of her mission protocol was to dial in to her handler exactly five hours after receiving such a call.   
  
"I never received that call," she says honestly, trying to inflect her voice with as much honest uncertainty as possible. "I haven't made any phone calls since--"  
  
"I don't care if you answered your phone this morning or not, Karen sweetheart, but someone rang you and whoever it was used an untraceable signal!" Faber's right in front of her, his hands gesturing as he speaks. He's angry, now under the assumption that he's been betrayed. "I know what an untraceable signal means, it means secrecy, and in my business employees don't keep secrets from me," he tells her, his voice quieter and harder than before.   
  
Sydney lets the words tumble out of her mouth before she can truly think them through. "I know I can be a little stubborn," she tells Faber, "but I am not disloyal." The words are the truth, it's just that the target of her loyalty isn't anyone here in this room. "I wouldn't devote a year and a half to you just to screw it up like that," she says with a shake of her head. Her chin rises a little farther. "And, to be honest, I thought you trusted me more than this."  
  
"Karen, right now I'm not very willing to trust anyone who's secretly taking private calls with God-knows-who--"  
  
"You're right," Sark interrupts suddenly, drawing both Faber's and Sydney's attention. "That phone call was meant to be private. The call was from me," he tells Faber.   
  
Faber looks in disbelief from Sark to Sydney and back to Sark again. Sydney closes her eyes briefly, as if disappointed that Sark has said too much. In truth, she's relieved at his interjection - and, as she begins to follow his logic, surprised that she didn't think of it herself. She knows well enough that Sark didn't phone her two hours ago, but it's a story that she's very willing to go along with right now if it means she'll be able to walk out of Faber's office.   
  
"You're the one who's been phoning her? On secured lines?" Faber asks, in slight disbelief. Still, Sydney can tell the difference in his demeanor almost right away. She knows this is something they can make him believe. What she doesn't know is why Sark would interject so easily for her.  
  
Sark nods. "I often take such precautions when making...personal calls," he adds, which is all that he needs to do to achieve the desired effect.   
  
Faber's eyebrows lift in surprise. "A personal call, you say?" He glances again between the two of them. "Am I to understand that the two of you..." His sentence trails off, but the implication hangs in the air just as clearly as if he had made it explicit.   
  
Sydney runs a shaky hand through her hair and does her best to flush in embarrassment, as if an affair has just been discovered. It's not an entirely difficult act for her to pull off - all she needs to do is think back to a short while ago, when she and Sark tangled themselves inexplicably around each other. She lets both hands come to rest in her pockets.   
  
Sark lets his own words answer for her. "I don't think either of us wanted it to come out this way, but nevertheless...yes. We had hoped to keep the relationship private," he tells Faber. "I'm sure you know how... precarious personal attachment can be in our line of work." He takes a step forward, placing himself just in between Faber and Sydney.   
  
Faber looks back at the two of them slowly, nodding as he takes in 'Karen's' pink cheeks and 'Evan's' protective stance. "Certainly, I realize that," he says, stepping back and leaning against his desk.   
  
He folds his arms again, a gradual smirk moving across his face. "I have to say, I'm a little surprised," he tells them, catching Sydney's eye a little longer than before. "It's obvious that you both work well together, but I hadn't thought that you would actually..." He pauses, letting his glance drift for a moment. "Well, then. This all appears to have been a misunderstanding," he finishes, more calm now.  
  
"Clearly," Sark answers.   
  
Faber nods back, before walking around his desk to sit down once more. The room is quiet for a moment.  
  
It is Sydney who steps forward next, breaking the silence. "I can assure you that any...personal relationship will not influence the quality of our work here," she tells Faber. She can't bring herself to look at Sark right now, and the words sound foreign in her ears, as if someone else is saying them entirely. She can't believe she's come to this. "We wouldn't want to compromise that."  
  
Faber looks down, something resembling a smile on his face when he looks up at her again. "Karen, I can assure _you_ that if the quality of your work declines, you'll be sure to hear about it from me."   
  
She nods slowly, her posture lifting slightly. Still, the message is clear. Just in case either of them was thinking about trying to subvert his operation, he'd find out about it. "Thank you," she says to Faber. After a glance at Sark, she tells them both, "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to go home and get some rest right now." She pushes away a loose strand of hair, and requires little effort to look tired and worn out.   
  
"Of course. Take a couple of days," Faber answers, and pauses before adding, "I'm sure there will be plenty for you to take care of when you come back."  
  
Sydney manages a brief smile, and is grateful. "I'm sure there will be."   
  
She turns to leave, and Sark follows right behind her. After a few steps Faber interrupts them. "I'm going to assume, then, that you won't need to rely on so many secured calls. I promise you I won't make things any more difficult for you provided the quality of your work is maintained," he tells them, his expression even, almost honest.   
  
Sark pauses next to her, and she knows she cannot remain silent at this. "Certainly. We understand."   
  
She hears her own answer and feels herself even managing a brief smile, before turning away again with Sark quick on her heels. Her eyes suddenly blink quickly, and the trembling she willed herself to avoid earlier starts to return. She's gotten to the elevator when he catches up with her completely, and they ride in tense silence down to the main level.  
  
 _This isn't happening, this can't be happening._  
  
Sydney tries to tell herself she didn't just put her safety in Sark's hands for the second time in two hours. She wants to tell herself she hasn't just given up all hope of maintaining a deep cover post in Faber's office, not when he'll be monitoring her calls and is already primed and ready to suspect her of something. She wishes she could tell herself that the CIA knew what they were doing when they put their surveillance plan into action prematurely.   
  
Her breath leaves her in a ragged sigh and she swallows, steadying herself for as long as it takes before she can leave. She feels like she'll suffocate if she doesn't get outside soon.  
  
His presence beside her isn't something she can ignore, but she can't bring herself to look at him. Her head is spinning, her thoughts trying hopelessly to organize themselves. Between the phone call, the chase, the kiss, and now Sark's rescue in front of Faber, she doesn't know what she should think or what she should do first. The elevator door opens and all she can do is stride forward, suddenly anxious to leave this building and drive away, to be anywhere but here.  
  
They're outside in front of the main steps before either one of them says anything, by which time Sydney already has her hand out to flag down a taxi. Fleetingly, it occurs to her that she'll have to find a way to get her car back from where she left it. But she'll make time for that later.  
  
"I can offer you a lift--"   
  
"Don't." She cuts him off, a little too abruptly and she knows it. She sees a cab a block away, waves her arm a bit more to draw the driver's attention. Traffic is picking up now, at the beginning of the day. "I appreciate what you've just done, I do, believe me, I just..." Her voice trails off as she notices the cab draw nearer.   
  
"I think we have more to talk about," he tells her, now standing as close to her as he was barely a minute ago in Faber's office. "And I think you know that," he adds.  
  
She meets his gaze for a moment, genuinely sympathetic towards him as she registers the mixture of concern and disappointment in his eyes. One thing Faber has just proved to her is that his surveillance is top of the line, and if the man in front of her was engaged in anything else covert, then he wouldn't be standing here with her right now. _Sark could actually be who he seems_ , she thinks.   
  
The thought rattles her, and she's still trying to find a way to answer him when the taxi pulls up. Finally, she breaks his gaze, searching in her bag for her sunglasses. "I know," she admits to him then. "I know. But not now." She slips the dark glasses over her eyes, and moves towards the taxi's passenger door.   
  
Sark's with her at every pace, and he puts out a hand to grasp at her arm as she reaches for the handle. His grip is surprisingly gentle, but firm enough to make her pause in her actions.   
  
"Wait," he asks her, his tone reflecting the same strength and patience as his hands.  
  
She doesn't look up when she answers. "Not now, please. Just...Just give me some time." As she opens the door she slips away from his touch and into the taxi, leaving Sark to watch after her.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
For the rest of the day she feels paralyzed, in a way she hasn't felt since that day with Faber after her first visit to Moscow. She's more terrified than she came close to letting on to either Sark or Faber, but still has to find a way to meet her father.   
  
Her beeper and cell phone will already need to be replaced, and she can't use them to contact him. But time is running out, and she needs to phone in, according to protocol. After two hours in her apartment, she emerges in a fresh change of clothing and walks a few blocks to buy a packet of cigarettes and a newspaper. Continuing on her way, she lights a cigarette and finishes it by the time she reaches the Prenzlauer Berg café she usually visits on Sundays.   
  
She doesn't rush, doesn't look around, simply does her best to go about her day. An hour passes and she's finished the paper cover to cover, and consumed three cups of coffee and an almond pastry. It's the caffeine she needs more than anything else, and she hopes the display of normalcy appeases whoever might be watching.   
  
She makes the trip back to her apartment even more leisurely than before, and resists the temptation to pull another cigarette from her purse. Instead she clutches the handbag under her arm and remains alert, breathing only a faint sigh of relief when she returns to her building.   
  
Once inside, she makes her way to the rear of the building and takes the stairs to the basement. There she finds a supply room and pulls a blonde wig and a black sweater from her bag. The sweater replaces the red one she wore before now, and the blonde wig falls in curls around her already pale cheeks. She trades her skirt for a pair of jeans and the look is complete, along with a pair of sunglasses. So disguised, she exits the building from the rear and walks through the small parking area and down a street in an opposite direction from the way she came.   
  
Five minutes later, after a circuit through several side streets and a few large buildings, she reaches a sheltered pay phone. With shaking hands she picks up the receiver, places the jamming transmitter inside the mouthpiece, and dials the number she memorized long ago. After entering two more series of passcodes, she finally hears his voice on the other end.   
  
"Dad?"  
  
"Sydney?"  
  
  
* * * * *   
  
They meet three hours later, at a different spot from any of the others before. She'd felt a need to get as far away from her apartment as was reasonable. So, she'd chosen the more private - if expensive - option of taking a taxi to drive her out past Biesdorf and Waldruh to the eastern outskirts of the city, stopping at a small Gaststube near the forest edge at Friedrichshagen. She pays the driver and tips him well enough to please him but also forget her after a few hours.   
  
Still hunched underneath her wig and a long coat over her jeans, she finds her father inside waiting for her. He's relieved to see her, and she's glad to see him. Still, any emotion between them has to be put on hold for the moment. They don't meet yet; instead she buys some crisps and cigarettes from the young man behind the counter and asks politely about the weather and the best sights around the edge of the lake.   
  
When she leaves she's walking in the direction of the forest. She's found the nearest hiking trail by the time her father catches up with her, and they're far enough inside the trees to relax and embrace one another.  
  
Every time she's met him she's been relieved, but never has her relief carried such an edge of tension as it does now. She wraps her arms around him and presses her head to his shoulder, and swallows back her anguish when she feels his arms enclose her right back. They part a minute later, as Sydney blinks back the emotion that threatens to well up, and Jack's hand gives her a reassuring squeeze.   
  
Jack knows why they're here, and so does she. He knows what almost happened to her today. And so he exhales a long breath, choosing his words carefully as he hands her a package.   
  
"Sydney, I'm sure you know this by now, but please - you need to exercise extreme caution, even more than before. We're issuing you new bugkillers for your apartment, they're a new two-way design that Marshall came up with. You can listen in as well as prevent signals. I also think it would be wise for you to review the security in your car-"  
  
"Dad, tell me what's going on," she tells him abruptly, taking the package from him. "Faber intercepted your call to me last night, he already suspects me of something. What do you know?"  
  
Another sigh. "From what we can tell, Faber's becoming extremely strict with his personnel lately. Have you noticed anything unusual in the Berlin office?"  
  
She shakes her head as she considers this, confused. "He changed assistants a month ago, but that wasn't a surprise since the previous one couldn't keep up with the computer records." She thinks some more. "I suppose he has been more selective with his assignments. For the past three weeks he's only sent out me or Sark on his behalf, no one else."  
  
He nods slowly. "As we thought. We've begun to suspect Faber's trust in both of you, that he might--"   
  
"Wait a minute," she interrupts. "You mean you've known something all along?" She's incredulous, and becoming furious at the implication that she might have been endangered needlessly. "You suspected something then? When the CIA tried to breach his communications?"  
  
His expression is hard, professional, but he has to recover himself a little as he registers her disappointment. She doesn't need any other answer from him, but he gives her one anyhow.  
  
"It was part of the reason we wanted to act so quickly," he tells her, his voice calm.   
  
" _Part_ of the reason?" she clarifies needlessly.   
  
He doesn't answer her directly and she already knows the answer anyhow. She feels something start to unhinge inside of her, as if she's stepped off of too great a height and she can't tell if there's anything there for her to hang on to. When she exhales her breath is visible in clouds in the cool air, and there is silence around them. She steadies herself.  
  
"Dad, I've been here for nearly a year and a half, please tell me the CIA is going to be able to do something soon." Her tone is impatient, and understandably so. She hasn't seen Faber weaken in the slightest - at least as far as she can tell - and there is a limit to how much professional courtesy she can sustain towards him and the assignments he gives her.  
  
"Sydney, Sark's involvement has changed things in a way we couldn't have predicted, and Faber's network has grown-"  
  
"I thought that was something my job was supposed to help prevent," she interrupts in frustration.  
  
"It is, and it will, but if we move too quickly and too soon and miscalculate the move, then the risk could be too great." His tone is firm, professional, but measured enough to betray his caution. He wants her to escape from this life, that much is clear, but he also wants her to be able to walk away from it on her own terms. Or at least, that's what he used to think. He would never have wanted her to walk into a situation he knew she couldn't walk out of.  
  
Slowly, she shakes her head again. "Sark won't harm me," she said. "This morning, when I was in trouble, he could have reported something to Faber first, but he didn’t." Her voice is calm, convinced.  
  
"Not to you he didn't," her father clarified, "Or in front of you and Faber. But there's nothing to prove that's where it ended. He might have talked more with Faber afterwards, or even long before now. For all we know, he's the one who gave Faber the idea in the first place that there might be a mole in his operation."  
  
She turns away from Jack then, she can't seem to look at him and process all of this at the same time. Her head's shaking again before the words are out of her mouth. "No, I don't believe that. He wouldn't have done that, I would have noticed something..."  
  
Jack closes the few steps between them. "Sydney...If you're wrong, the costs could be irreversible," he reasons with her.   
  
Her gaze catches his again. She swallows as she meets his expression, and her hardened tone of voice seems almost distant to her as she responds. "Dad, you haven't been the one working in that office for the last year and a half. It's been me, not you. I've handled myself with Faber and I can certainly handle Sark, and I've been doing all of it just fine so far."  
  
"Sydney..."  
  
"No, wait." She's angry now. "I've followed every instruction, accepted every protocol and assignment no matter how trivial I thought it was or how little difference I thought it made. I gave up everything I had back home to be here, and now I find out it all comes down to a...a CIA _miscalculation_?" She shakes her head, her arms gesturing at her sides. "I can't accept that. I won't."  
  
"Sydney..." he starts, his hands still at his sides, "I don't need to remind you that you chose this assignment," he says with impossible patience.   
  
"No," she responds simply. "You don't."  
  
Jack exhales, swallows. She wonders if this meeting is going as he anticipated it would.   
  
"Will you consider an extraction?" he asks her, and she realizes then that, truthfully, she'd never even thought about it. "You could leave immediately, come with me now. You'd be back in L.A. by..."  
  
"You want me to abandon my assignment? Just like that?"  
  
"We may not have properly assessed the risk of this assignment," he reasons quickly, "I'll admit that, but while I would like there to be some success here, I'm also reluctant to jeopardize your safety any further."  
  
"No," is her answer again. "I won't leave. I can still do something, I won't let everything I've done go to waste."  
  
"Sydney," he starts again, harder and firmer than before, "I know this isn't an ideal situation, but we're left with very few options for the time being. Even if you were to stay here under Faber's employment, it could take weeks, months even, for us to formulate a comprehensive plan..."  
  
She brings a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply. His words reach her and she understands them and yet she doesn't hear them, not really. There's only one thing he can say to her now and she knows what it is, underneath all the protocol and patience and agonizing lengths of time...  
  
Now, more than ever, she realizes that if they are going to make a strike against Faber, it will have to be all or nothing. Any small moves will be noticed by him too quickly, and if the CIA isn't ready to move by now, she will have to continue to wait. They've been moving too confidently, always assuming that even small steps will always be steps forward.   
  
If she returns with her father now, within days she'll probably be sitting in a new apartment near the beach somewhere. She can guess what the CIA will do, and pictures herself spending her days 'recuperating' at a desk job and her nights doing who knows what. And with whom? She has no answer to that question.   
  
Her father's still talking, trying to explain things to her and perhaps even trying to apologize for what's happened. She turns back to face him in interruption.  
  
"Dad, I'm not leaving. I know there are probably a million reasons why I should, but I just can't. I've made it through so far and I can still make it. I'm not ready to leave yet."  
  
When she looks back at him now, suddenly he seems so much smaller. The arms that have held her so strongly so many times are now still, and his stern brow has become weakened by so many years in the same profession.   
  
The time has not yet come for her to retreat. He must have known this, guessed it at least - otherwise he would have asked her right away if she wanted to take the extraction. Sydney shakes her head again slowly, repeating her last words. "I'm not ready to leave yet."  
  
Only hours ago she was driving at breakneck speed through streets she's walked many times with her own two feet. She was terrified, afraid for what might happen and who she could trust, and yet now...it dawns on her how quickly that same fear has left her. As much as she feels resentment for her situation, or frustration over what could have or should have happened...she knows that she can find a way to move forward from this on her own terms.   
  
They remain on the silent path, facing each other for a long moment. Jack's gaze falls, as he finally accepts what she's told him. Slowly, he reaches one hand into his jacket pocket, retrieving a second, smaller envelope. He holds it out to her, waiting. She takes it from him, looking down at it in her hands.  
  
"There is a key there, and two sets of cards there. Memorize them. One holds the number and address for a safe deposit box, which we will use to transfer information. The other is a series of locations and their corresponding ID numbers. The next time you are to meet an Agent, your contact will specify which one."  
  
Sydney looks up at him quickly. He hasn't indicated whether that Agent will be him. His instructions are brief, emotionless, and the change in his approach from just a few moments ago is jarring. She blinks, and nods.   
  
"Thank you."  
  
When he answers her, his voice has lost the edge of determination it held before, and she aches inside to hear it.   
  
"Please, Sydney...Be careful."  
  
She responds kindly, as best she can. He nods back resolutely, and after a pause he turns away down the path back towards the town.   
  
Her gaze follows him until she can no longer see him.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
The new package of cigarettes she's bought rests unopened on the edge of the sofa where she sits. She picks it up, letting the smooth plastic wrapper slide up and down between her fingers.   
  
Since meeting with her father she's been at loose ends, unable to find where her next move lies or what next step she's supposed to take. In the last few hours she's paced back and forth between the rooms of her small, second-floor apartment, poured herself a drink, tried to concentrate on something, anything. She stood under the shower until the hot water ran cold, and even then it took her a full minute to shut it off and step out to get dressed.  
  
In her head she's mapped out the last eighteen months of her life nearly a dozen times. As the scenes play out in her mind, it's not the early ones that rattle her the most - the first few months with Faber hold an almost nostalgic appeal to her now, as she looks back on their relative simplicity and organized caution. Even when Sark first appeared, it was a surprise but one that she could handle.   
  
Instead, it's all come down to the last few weeks, the moments that have handed her the boundaries to her isolation and the grey, hastily drawn map of her future.   
  
Countless times, she's asked herself how she could have underestimated this situation. She should have known better. Her father should have known better, and her superiors at the CIA most certainly should have. She's angry at them, and at her father for allowing her to face a situation he suspected was unpredictable.   
  
She takes her time alone to decide something for herself, to reconcile the fact that if she stays, it might be for much longer than she imagined.  
  
Sitting on her sofa she can look out from the window of her comfortable fourth-floor apartment, and watch the city's night life take shape. The lights become brighter and the shadows become longer, and even the darkened and faded limestone buildings she knows surround her will look that much more elegant, in the evening play of light and darkness.   
  
Her fingers slide down the package of cigarettes, letting it slip and fall only for her to catch it again and repeat the gesture. She hasn't asked the city to show her its scars, and she's done her part to conceal her own. But it's hard to keep them invisible forever.   
  
In another life, in another time, she could have lost herself in the loud music of a nightclub as easily as the sound of a friend's laughter. She might have done twenty laps at the track and two rounds with the punching bag. There would have been someone with waiting arms or a rational explanation, and she would have known that at least when she woke up the next day it would hold a sense of purpose.  
  
She tilts back her head to lean farther into the sofa, lowering a hand across her eyes as if the small gesture will shield her from something.   
  
The more she thinks about the events of the last 24 hours, the more she feels herself remembering that short time at dawn, in the alley. When she closes her eyes, she remembers his lips on hers, his hands on her body, and how it felt to simply kiss him back and think of nothing else.  
  
Inexplicably, he's given her an opportunity, opened a door for her that she never truly saw before. She doesn't know the reasons, but there is plenty of time to find out.   
  
Sydney opens her eyes again, sitting up straight. She's finished trying to decide anything.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
_"I would but find what's there to find,  
Love or deceit."  
  
"It was the mask engaged your mind,  
And after set your heart to beat,  
Not what's behind."  
  
~v2, 'The Mask'_  
  
* * * * *   
  
By the time she knocks on his door that evening, in her mind she's been through another spirited round with her father and another two or three with herself. With Sark...she's not sure yet. And with Faber, that's another situation entirely.   
  
She's weighed everything from accepting an early extraction to falsifying her death to simply not showing up for work the next time, and yet none of these options hold nearly as much interest for her as the one that involves going to see Sark. She needs to see him, to know what he knows. _And why the hell not?_ she tells herself. _Faber's supposed to think we're having an affair. Let him think that if he wants._   
  
It's these thoughts that accompany her as she stands in front of Sark's door. Only two knocks are necessary before she hears faint shuffling from inside the apartment, and the sound of footsteps moving towards the door. A silent few seconds pass as he stops to open the door, and then he's standing in front of her in the entrance.   
  
"Hello," he greets her, adding a barely necessary, "Come in," after a moment's pause.   
  
"Thank you," she answers. Wordlessly, he stands aside and lets her in, closing the door silently behind her.   
  
It's a stylishly furnished apartment, open and surprisingly elegant in its simplicity. A few steps inside and she looks out into an expansive living room that blends into a dining area and then again into a kitchen, this part divided from the rest by a low wall. The fireplace is dark, and briefly she wonders if he ever uses it. There are no extraordinary splashes of colour, no distinctive patterns or cluttered corners. A hallway leads off towards the right and she can see a faint beam of light resting in an open door several paces down. An office perhaps, or a bedroom. She turns back to Sark, who speaks again.  
  
"So you did come, after all."   
  
"You didn't believe me?"  
  
"I had my doubts."  
  
Sydney wonders how strong those doubts were, but nods slowly at this statement, accepting it. They're both still standing several feet apart, between the foyer and the living room of his apartment, and the faint sound of jazz music fills the space. Her expression falters along with her grip, and she lets her handbag slip to the floor next to her.   
  
They're well beyond formalities now.   
  
They could easily begin with a laundry list of how each has influenced the life of the other, tallying up the score of whose past has been more unfortunate, whose hurts have been deeper or more painful or more justified. But that would change nothing between them, and if she chooses to revisit the past she's not going to start by telling him things he already knows.  
  
She turns towards him again, lifting her gaze and steeling herself to ask what she's been wanting to ask since that day months ago when she walked into Faber's office and Sark greeted her with a kiss on her hand.   
  
"Why?" Her voice betrays her impatience, determination. Her fingers are shaking a little, and she can feel nervous energy beginning to radiate within her. For months she's played along and she refuses to do that any more. Not now, not after all that's happened; not after twice putting her life in the hands of the man in front of her.   
  
"Why here? Why Faber?" she clarifies this time, challenging his thoughtful silence.   
  
A deep sigh escapes him at her question, as though he has anticipated this all along. His shoulders rise and fall along with his breath, and his hands still rest in his pockets.  
  
"Profit," he answers calmly. "Privilege. Power. They're the only reasons I've ever needed, and Faber was available and wanted someone to work with him. I saw the chance and I took it."  
  
Sydney holds her eyes on him, shaking her head slightly. "I don't believe you."  
  
"Why not?" he challenges back.  
  
"Because I know you," she scoffs. "Or…At least I think I used to," she adds in added reaction. "And I know why you've done the things you've done before. You must have more of a reason than that," she counters, taking a step forward.   
  
She watches as her words register with Sark, and he lifts his hands from his pockets as he stiffens. He looks disappointed, almost angry as he matches her step and closes more of the distance between them. She knows she's pushing him and she's doing it on purpose. Trust is not something she gives away easily and she needs to see where his limits are.  
  
"Is it so hard to believe that I would search out Faber as a professional ally? Think about it, Sydney, I know you're smarter than this." She's taken aback at his sudden use of her name, a name that is foreign to her in this city - let alone the accusation.  
  
"All my life," he continues, "I have been trained to do just what I am doing now. In case you haven't noticed it yourself, the Rambaldi business isn't quite what it used to be and the Covenant isn't exactly a name one can put on a resume these days." His words fall freely, too forcefully and spitefully to be contrived. Sydney swallows, impressed and curious. She's never seen this kind of energy from him before - at least not recently.   
  
"So," he adds, "If you're looking for some larger purpose or agenda, I'm afraid you'll be searching a little longer than you expected. I'm here for myself, no one else."  
  
A ragged sigh escapes her lips as she accepts this. She runs a hand through her hair and tries to will away the tension she feels in her shoulders.   
  
"I thought that..." she starts to say, letting the sentence trail away unfinished. Her gaze shifts, and she feels a slight warmth start to fade across her cheek.   
  
"You thought what?" he asks, his voice hard, taking another step towards her. "You thought I was still after Rambaldi somehow?" She blinks, long and hard in a gesture that admits the truth of his question. "Or that I was still Covenant?"   
  
Another step towards her, and she can almost feel his breath on her as he poses the next question, his voice suddenly calmer, more patient than when he started. "Did you think I was still working with your mother?" he asks, and this time his hand reaches out to her, resting underneath her chin and lifting her face to meet his gaze.   
  
Not until just then did she realize how desperately she needed to ask that question, and now that he's asked it for her she almost regrets it. Because now, he will have to answer it, and she will have to come to terms with whatever response he gives her.   
  
The hesitation is his, now, and he looks back at her silently, too long for her comfort. She meets his gaze, blinking once, twice, and swallows. And then he shakes his head, answering her first without words. "Not any more. Not since before the Covenant took you."  
  
His words are difficult to her for her to hear, and yet spoken so calmly that she can't believe she's hearing them from him, of all people. He shouldn't be speaking so kindly to her, she doesn't want something else to try to make sense of. She can't make sense of most of this as it is, because she knows she will fail if she tries. She turns brusquely, shifting away from his touch and resting one hand against the wall.   
  
"Sydney," he continues, his expression serious, "if this is the reason you came here tonight, I'm afraid this may be a very short visit indeed." With that, he starts to walk past her, towards the door as if to see her out.   
  
"Wait," she says suddenly, reaching out her own hand to stop him. She can't let this end like this. She grips his arm gently, making him pause in his steps to stand next to her. Steadying herself, she swallows before she speaks again. "Ask me," she tells him simply, making him turn to look at her.   
  
"I know you must want to, so ask me," Sydney repeats.  
  
His expression still reveals an air of defensive frustration, but she can see the curiosity that lies beneath. He knows what she's offering. "Are you still CIA?"   
  
The question hangs in the air, and she straightens as she lifts her hand away. Suddenly she's hesitant, as if she hadn't actually been prepared to answer. She contemplates her response for a moment.   
  
"What happens if I tell you that I'm not?" she asks, returning his question with another.   
  
Sark presses his lips together as he considers this, turning back towards her. "Then I'll be surprised. Curious, as well," he tells her.  
  
She wasn't expecting this response from him, and she's sure her expression betrays that fact. "And if I tell you that I am?" she asks this time.  
  
His look changes almost imperceptibly, frustration softening ever so slightly into something akin to comfort. "Then I'll be relieved," he says.  
  
Sydney doesn't understand this answer. "Why?"   
  
"Because it would mean you weren't so different from the woman I remember." The words are cautiously delicate on his lips.   
  
His response is a startling mirror of what she sees now that she's been looking for in him. She's surprised, again - something she's getting used to by now - and for a moment her mouth pauses slightly agape as she searches for her response. Finally, she shakes her head, letting her gaze fall to the floor.   
  
He looks back at her, still wondering. "You haven't answered me," he says, although his tone is not forceful or defensive or even very energetic. It's a simple statement, inviting her towards the inevitable step of honesty. _Honesty._ Even now, she never thought that would be something she'd work to create with him.  
  
Her gaze meets his and she shakes her head again. "It wouldn't matter, either way. Anything I could do for the CIA now has been compromised," she answers, and her shoulders fall slightly.   
  
Despite everything he's just told her, this is the only answer she finds herself prepared to give, for her own part. She's not sure if it's purely in the interest of self-preservation or lack of trust, or because, for the moment, the last thing she wants to contemplate is how she arrived here at this time and place.   
  
He regards her quietly, his brow furrowed slightly as he seems to accept this.   
  
"And besides, the truth is, I'm not sure how much of that woman is left in me," she tells him openly. "Right now, all I am is Karen Sorensen," she adds, marking the end of this line of questioning.  
  
But at this, Sark takes another step towards her. "I don't believe that for a second," he says, shaking his head. "That can't possibly be all that you are. Or," he adds, "the only reason you're here."  
  
There is silence between them, mediated only by their breathing and the smooth sounds of the music that somehow now seems very distant. As he turns his head at that moment, the light falls along his face in just the right way, illuminating his cheek and the faded, crescent-shaped scar below his eye.   
  
Sydney can't help herself, then, just as she felt herself pulling towards him hours earlier in the moment when it looked like he might turn away. She lifts her hand slowly towards his face, reaching for the faint yet indelible trace of what seems like a past life to her - she can only begin to imagine what it means to him. Her thumb alights along that curved line, tracing its softness. His eyes close briefly, as he stills and allows her to satisfy this curiosity.  
  
A feeling she can only think to describe as regret washes over her, and then is replaced by something else as she feels a familiar sense of anger. She doesn't want to revisit the past again. She doesn't think she needs to, either.   
  
He stops the movement of her hand with his own, grasping it and curving his fingers around hers. The interruption breaks her away from her thoughts, and as she looks back into his eyes then she realizes it is with no expectation. Their hands come to rest below his shoulder. She can feel his heart beating.   
  
"Thank you for saying what you said," she tells him gently, before he can say anything else to her just yet. Gratitude always seems to come as an afterthought to her. "To Faber. If you hadn't..." she pauses, shakes her head a little. "If you hadn't, I probably wouldn't be standing here right now."   
  
His eyebrows lift slightly, as he nods. Perhaps he's been waiting to hear her acknowledge this. Some day she will ask more - ask why he chose to do this for her in the first place. But tonight will not be that moment. And just now, she's not even sure that she needs to ask.   
  
"I did assume there must be more to the story," he responds. "As far as I can tell, my own position with Faber is as secure as ever, and to be honest," he adds with a nod, "I rather thought you could use the help."   
  
"You could say that," she admits. Her hand turns in his, allowing their fingers to interlace with each other. She shakes her head. "But I don't want to share stories any more. Not tonight."  
  
At this, she watches his lips curve gradually into a smile, an almost feral expression. Her words require no further interpretation.  
  
She asks herself then what she's waiting for, what else is there that's left to be said. The distance between them has closed almost as much as it possibly can, and she's just starting to notice the warmth of his breath against her cheek when he closes the gap completely.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
He kisses her deeply, unhesitatingly, as if picking up the pieces of what they left behind in that alley only hours ago. Both of his hands reach for hers, intertwining their fingers and pressing her back firmly against the wall, and for a moment it's as if they really are right back there. It's as if the anxiety and anger and fear never had the chance to defeat her, because suddenly the only thing she can think or care about is how much longer she can wait before she feels his touch on her skin.   
  
The kiss is plunging, probing, and makes her want to fight back with equal pressure and leave all restraint behind. She untangles her hands from his and brings them to the side of his face, trying to hold him as close as she can, wanting him to be the one who has to counter her. His own hands don't seem to mind their momentary freedom, and they move quickly behind her and wrap around her body.   
  
She feels his hands roving, stroking along her spine and she has to fight the urge to twist in his arms, hasten his actions. The fabric of her coat and shirt already pose too much of a barrier, but she can't voice this, can't even think how she can take her lips away from his to tell him anything with words. His hands snake underneath the coat, running along the curve of her back, and she feels a shiver follow in their wake.   
  
Her fingers run through his hair, curling and grasping behind his neck as she presses her body hard against his. A response echoes from him, a brief moan almost like a growl, starting low and deep in his throat, and his hands tighten around her waist.   
  
When their lips finally part, they can't help but gasp a little for air, and Sydney wonders if it's not a little bit out of surprise and not just lack of oxygen. But she's beyond caring about what should or shouldn't happen. Her fingers trail back along his jaw and she brushes her thumbs along his now bruised lips, as her gaze follows the same path. The sound of their breathing resonates in her ear, and despite her impatience she finds herself pausing, wanting to take in every detail and commit this to memory.   
  
Even this brief action is interrupted, though, as his hands skim her sides and towards her shoulders. His fingers slide underneath her coat, forcing her to lower her arms for him to let the wool slip off her shoulders and fall in a pool at her feet. She returns her hands to him, pressing her palms flat against his chest as she gazes back. He kisses her once more on the lips, and then wastes no time allowing his caresses to travel lower.   
  
His lips trail along her jaw and down her neck, returning her to that morning as she feels her knees start to go weak. He encounters the wide collar of her sweater, pushes it away to expose her shoulder. Involuntarily, she feels herself start to arch against him as his lips meet the tender skin below her collarbone, traveling lower and lower until it's impossible to go further. She hears a sound escape her throat, something akin to his moan of impatience.   
  
Sydney lifts her hands wordlessly, breaking the contact between them again. He pulls away the sweater in one fluid motion, discarding it carelessly. She nearly shivers again at the sudden exposure of air on her skin, but quickly forgets the sensation as Sark's lips crash down on hers once more. Her fingers blindly begin to fumble with the buttons on his shirt.   
  
She's pushing him now as she works, moving both of them farther into the apartment towards the expansive living room. He steps back with her and they're traveling in a kind of unpolished tango as Sydney finally slips her hands underneath the folds of his shirt and over the muscle and skin beneath. The dark fabric falls away and adds to their trail of evidence on the floor.   
  
They reach the sofa and she's pushing him back onto it before their lips part once again. Outside it is dark and cold, and the wind howls against the windows as though in warning. But here inside they can't seem to move fast enough, revealing themselves to each other a piece at a time as the clothes are discarded.   
  
She straddles him easily, resting just above him as his mouth returns to her skin, exploring territory that is becoming more familiar by the second. Even as she feels herself beginning to arch against him, her hands move across his torso, attempting to explore in return. Finally her fingers touch the smooth metal of his belt buckle and she opens it as swiftly as she can, before pulling away the slim leather altogether.   
  
Sark responds, an unintelligible sound against her skin that resonates inside her as he encounters his next obstacle. He takes the curve of her breast in his mouth, kneading, searching, moving as far as he can before reaching the fabric of her bra. His fingers are just as fast as hers, skimming along her spine and releasing the clasp before she has a chance to register the sensation.   
  
Her hands lift from his torso briefly as he removes the piece of lace, and then returns to his task. His lips close over one nipple as his hands knead at her hips, and her lips start to quiver as his tongue moves, swirls, savouring her. She presses against him, insistent and careless at the same time, and feels his own readiness as the heat gathers between them. She feels her legs nearly give out altogether.  
  
Her control is fading fast; she can feel it leaving every part of her with every second that passes. And so she returns one hand to his waist, searching, finding the zipper and pulling it open. She raises herself just enough to release him, but does not remove her fingers from their target, encircling him instead and stroking his length. She feels his hands start to clench tighter at her waist and knows he's nearly done for, his patience dissolving along with her control, and then she hears the growl returning.   
  
"Sydney..." He's obstinate, nearly pleading for her. It's too much all of a sudden, so much all at once, and as if there is no other way to proceed, she bends to claim his lips with hers, stopping his words. She kisses him fiercely, almost too hard as she presses her mouth back on his, biting and tasting and silencing him for reasons she can't explain.   
  
She's past caring about gentleness or caution. Those aren't words she wants to use with him, not now, perhaps not ever.  
  
He's pushing her back now, and for a split second she's falling and clinging to him all at once. But he's too quick for her, and his arms catch her and hold her to him before she has the chance to hit the floor.   
  
Her hands grasp at his neck, holding on to him like there is no other choice. She buries her forehead against his shoulder and inhales, breathing in the scent of him. It's something she can't quite place - sweat and rain and cologne and wine and coffee and something else she can't describe. She wonders if she'll ever be able to. She can't even describe what she's feeling, what he's doing to her and how it makes her burn inside.   
  
He lowers her the rest of the way and she feels the thick carpet beneath her back. Her body rests against it willingly, as her knees rise to enclose his hips. Immediately her hands find his waist again, pull the rest of his clothing down and away until she can reach no further and he has to do the rest for her. She runs her hands along the muscled length of his thigh and the curve of his buttocks until she's back at his hips again. He kisses her again, more gently this time, and when his lips part from hers she reacts badly to the sudden disconnection, reaching after him and cradling his head in her hands.   
  
There's almost nothing left between them but a few pockets of air, and enough light that she can see the sinewy lines and occasional, marked scars along his torso and neck. When his gaze meets hers again she nearly loses herself in it; his eyes are so blue and so ferocious she nearly forgets they have a colour at all.   
  
No more words pass between them then, at least none she will have any memory of, later. Her body is as a map to him now, his mouth following its topography and his hands exploring what he cannot see except in his mind's eye. He opens the clasp at her waist, pulls away the fabric that still clings to her legs, and lets his lips follow in its wake. His fingers run along her hips and down her thighs and she trembles just slightly as she feels his breath warm on tender, shadowed skin. She reaches for him, runs fingers through his hair, doesn't want to wait any more...  
  
His hands are fast, tearing away her slacks completely and then the remaining scrap of lace of her panties, and before she can indicate anything else he's there, bending between her legs. Her eyes flutter closed when he lowers his mouth to her silky centre. It's impossible, how precisely he works, how quickly his tongue finds her and then she's moving against him...can't decide if it's too much or far too little and soon it won't matter.   
  
She can't wait much longer, she's losing herself on the edge between longing and utter ecstasy, nearly writhing beneath him until he grasps her hips and holds her in place and she can't deny him any thing any more. She couldn't form words now if she wanted to, and the moan she hears leaves her as if on the crest of a wave, and white pinpricks burst behind her eyelids as she stiffens against him.   
  
His breath follows in warm clouds against her thigh, and he trails kisses there, and back along her hip, brushing the gossamer flesh of her belly until he's retracing his earlier path with agonizing leisure.   
  
Sydney reaches for him then, pulling his mouth to hers, unable to wait. He's been savouring her, tasting every part of her she'll let him, until she can't last any more. She plunders his mouth with hers, as her hands travel lower and guide him to her centre. She gasps into his throat as he finally sheaths himself, suddenly filling her and then moving against her, slowly and then rhythmically, finding her edge and traveling it as far as he can.   
  
Her hands clutch at him, rake along his back until they reach his shoulders again, as her arms curve against him and hold his body to hers. Her grasp weakens finally, her hands fall back behind her as he catches her hands in his, anchoring her until she feels something start to break inside.   
  
As her lips part from his she feels her lungs taking in air, as if it was something she'd forgotten. Just then she feels like she can't remember anything before this night, all else has faded and in her mind's eye there is only him, and her, and the heat that is now slick between them.  
  
She's moved beyond thought, beyond desire, into need and abandon... She wants to feel only his skin next to hers, to feel herself sliding against him... She wants to envelop him as he will her... She wants to feel something different, anything other than the dark cloud that streaks across her vision of the future, or the grey chaos of her past... She wants to forget, wants him to consume her until she breaks into pieces underneath him... She wants to tear apart in his arms so he can tell her what he sees...  
  
Her hips rise to meet his every thrust; his breath releases in shallow waves on her shoulder until he's panting along with her. And then he shifts ever so slightly above her and she's gasping again, feeling the scream starting deep in her throat, until it breaks from her and she doesn't know what she screams... She arches against his body as he covers her mouth with his once more… He's taking all of her with him while giving every piece of himself, as she tightens around him and his release sends her over the edge completely.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
Silence greets her when she wakes a short while later. Outside, the darkness still lingers. As her eyes open in the now dim light, she becomes aware of his arm around her waist, and his breath on her shoulder. She doesn't feel cold, and notices that he has pulled a blanket across both of them.  
  
He's awake too, she realizes as she turns onto her back. He leans on one elbow, looking down at her and meeting her gaze. One of her hands links with his, clasped against her waist. The other lifts towards his face, touching his cheek carefully and tracing the faint roughness there as if verifying this new reality that stares back at her.  
  
There's a brief glint in his eye as the light reflects back at her. Her breath exhales from her in a long, sensuous sigh, and she can't help but smile up a little at him.   
  
He leans over her, bends to press his lips hers. It's slow and gentle now, his lips brushing hers just lightly at first as he breathes her in, enough to make her stretch up towards his kiss and pursue another. He responds, covering her lips with a series of deliberate caresses until one last kiss that lingers and deepens, taking her breath away and making her sit up after him and press her hands against his body.   
  
She leans against him, suddenly expectant and hesitant at the same time. Words have still not returned to her - nor him apparently, as the only sound between them is that of their breathing, their touches. She won't be leaving any time soon; she knows now that the thought had hardly entered her mind since she first knocked on his door. And just as she's contemplating this she feels one of his arms wrap underneath her knees, as the other strengthens its place below her shoulders, and she feels herself being lifted.   
  
He settles her in his arms as she looks back at him briefly, before she closes her eyes again and folds her arms around his neck. He lifts her, carries her wordlessly to his bed.  
  
The smooth sheets beneath her are suddenly cool, jarring. He stretches out beside her and she immediately turns to him, fingertips finding the curve of his neck and shoulders and chest. She extends one leg over him, her hands moving across his torso, keeping her body just within his reach. And then as she leans over him fully her breasts press up against his chest, eliciting a low, insistent murmur that she silences with her lips.  
  
He reaches for her, grasping along her skin, hands splayed across her hips, her stomach, her arms, her breasts. She lets him find her, read her with his fingers, and suspends herself above him to let his mouth do the same.   
  
This time it is she who lowers her body along the length of his, offering and taking and sensing everything all at once, until the moment when she arches above him. And she looks down at him afterwards and can't convince herself that his eyes glimmer for anyone else but her.   
  
And then they lie next to one another, nothing left to give but this nearness, their bodies curved into each other as if in refuge.   
  
  
* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their relationship deepens, and questions arise.

* * * * *   
  
Silence greets her when she wakes a short while later. Outside, the darkness still lingers. As her eyes open in the now dim light, she becomes aware of his arm around her waist, and his breath on her shoulder. She doesn't feel cold, and notices that he has pulled a blanket across both of them.  
  
He's awake too, she realizes as she turns onto her back. He leans on one elbow, looking down at her and meeting her gaze. One of her hands links with his, clasped against her waist. The other lifts towards his face, touching his cheek carefully and tracing the faint roughness there as if verifying this new reality that stares back at her.  
  
There's a brief glint in his eye as the light reflects back at her. Her breath exhales from her in a long, sensuous sigh, and she can't help but smile up a little at him.   
  
He leans over her, bends to press his lips hers. It's slow and gentle now, his lips brushing hers just lightly at first as he breathes her in, enough to make her stretch up towards his kiss and pursue another. He responds, covering her lips with a series of deliberate caresses until one last kiss that lingers and deepens, taking her breath away and making her sit up after him and press her hands against his body.   
  
She leans against him, suddenly expectant and hesitant at the same time. Words have still not returned to her - nor him apparently, as the only sound between them is that of their breathing, their touches. She won't be leaving any time soon; she knows now that the thought had hardly entered her mind since she first knocked on his door. And just as she's contemplating this she feels one of his arms wrap underneath her knees, as the other strengthens its place below her shoulders, and she feels herself being lifted.   
  
He settles her in his arms as she looks back at him briefly, before she closes her eyes again and folds her arms around his neck. He lifts her, carries her wordlessly to his bed.  
  
The smooth sheets beneath her are suddenly cool, jarring. He stretches out beside her and she immediately turns to him, fingertips finding the curve of his neck and shoulders and chest. She extends one leg over him, her hands moving across his torso, keeping her body just within his reach. And then as she leans over him fully her breasts press up against his chest, eliciting a low, insistent murmur that she silences with her lips.  
  
He reaches for her, grasping along her skin, hands splayed across her hips, her stomach, her arms, her breasts. She lets him find her, read her with his fingers, and suspends herself above him to let his mouth do the same.   
  
This time it is she who lowers her body along the length of his, offering and taking and sensing everything all at once, until the moment when she arches above him. And she looks down at him afterwards and can't convince herself that his eyes glimmer for anyone else but her.   
  
And then they lie next to one another, nothing left to give but this nearness, their bodies curved into each other as if in refuge.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
When she wakes again it is not quite dawn. A haze has gathered outside and the sun has not yet risen to break it.   
  
She sits up and sees him lying next to her still fast asleep. This takes her a little by surprise, and she pulls herself slowly from under the covers and out of bed. She sees one of his shirts lying discarded on a chair and wraps herself in it quickly, without thinking, as she makes her way down the hall.  
  
In the bathroom she splashes water over her face and contemplates her reflection for a long while. She runs one hand through her hair, bringing some order to the mussed strands and it doesn't occur to her that she might not even need to bother.   
  
Her body aches, still carrying the pleasant traces of their exertions, and she exhales slowly, reminding herself of where she is and why and with whom, and tries to tell herself it's what she wants.   
  
She pads back down the hall silently, but stops again in the doorframe and leans up against it. Her arms fold across her waist as she looks down at him, dark hair curling in short waves, matted from sweat at the base of his neck. He lies on one side, half on his stomach, arms stretched underneath his pillow, head ducked between strong shoulders that rise and fall slowly with his breath.   
  
Sydney watches him sleep, sees the relaxation in his body and can find none of her own. The memories her body carries start to fade from her as she watches him, and all she can do is ask herself why sleep should come so easily to him. _He must trust me_ , she tells herself, but brings a hand across her mouth as she keeps thinking. _He trusts me already, or else he doesn't need to._  
  
She feels numb, and all of a sudden hopes with everything she can still feel, that the possibly the most unexpectedly passionate night of her life hasn't also just been the most foolish. She remembers her father's words to her, his persistent caution to her against Sark, and a knot starts to curl in the pit of her stomach.   
  
And just then she turns her head, looks down the hall and sees her coat, crumpled on the floor where they left it that night. And she remembers two small objects in one pocket, transferred quickly from her father's envelope, and his reminder of their dual function. She wonders just how far his strategy took him when he gave her more than one.   
  
After another minute of frozen silence, she makes her choice and slips down the hall, reaches into the pocket of her coat and pulls out a slim, small item that has all the appearances of a tarnished Euro coin. She recalls the moment before she walked into his building last night, when she pressed the tip of her fingernail against a particular tiny panel along one side, activating the device, and then steps back hurriedly towards her coat to return it to the pocket.  
  
She glances rapidly around the room before letting her gaze come to rest at the base of a large potted plant in the far corner. Her feet move lightly and briskly across the room before she bends down, noticing a spot where she could fit it perfectly - slid between the pot and a groove in the floor. She holds the coin firmly, genuinely hesitant. And then, just as briskly, she pulls her hand back and continues to clutch it, holding on to it after all. _You knew what you were doing when you came here_ , she tells herself.   
  
When she stands again she's almost expecting him to be watching her from the doorway, challenging her intentions and her actions with a single glare. But she's alone, still, with only the morning light slowly fading in through the windows to greet her. The small transmitter will continue to do its job while she's here, but she can't quite bring herself to leave it behind.  
  
She returns and he's there just as she left him, his breathing still light and restful. Sydney discards the shirt once more across the chair where she found it, and slips underneath the covers behind him. She closes her eyes as she eases herself against him, and as her hands come to rest she wills her heartbeat to do the same.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
On the day she returns to work, Sark greets her with a knowing half-smile, and she returns the gesture as she brushes her fingers against his. This time he's the one watching her as she moves, and this time she doesn't mind at all.   
  
It's Faber's glance that she minds even less, surprisingly enough, regardless of the lingering suspicion and frigidity she sees in it. Now, when she walks, her shoulders are thrown back again in confidence and she walks with all the certainty of a prowling lion.  
  
She sits in Faber's office with confidence, listening to him describe the latest improvements in export schemes through Hamburg, the most recent upgrades in their network security, the next assignment he has on tap for her. This time he's even sending her and Sark together again, posting them to manage a delivery for him. It's a job just outside of Madrid, and will mean a minimum of two days travel time.   
  
Faber tries a wink at her as he finishes, and her expression doesn't change. He's testing her, she knows. Everything has become a test for him now, she sees that more clearly than ever. It's the price she paid for lifting suspicion from her with the aid of Sark and the cover story he provided for her. _Which isn't just a cover story any more_ , she tells herself with some satisfaction.  
  
Sydney accepts the documents from him and then turns to leave after a few brief words are exchanged. It doesn't matter that he's not sending her out alone just yet, or that it might take weeks for her to convince him once more of her integrity. Truthfully, she's not sure if she even wants to make the effort to try.   
  
She walks out of Faber's office and feels Sark's hand rest gently and briefly at her back as he passes her, and knows there is nothing else she needs to do to convince Faber of anything.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
Most days she continues her long hours for Faber, and there are, once again, many days when she works alone. There are days when she doesn't see Sark at all, and it never fails to unsettle her that she notices his absence so acutely.  
  
There are times like the Madrid assignment when they're on their own, a job well done and nothing else left afterwards but each other and a spontaneous plan for the night. On those nights her assignments are merely a prelude, moving her through what she has to deliver or who she has to threaten or who they might even have to kill in order to get Faber what he wants... Still, it all simply lays the fleeting groundwork for their encounter, an exercise in speed and agility as their reflexes are heightened as far as they can be.   
  
There are times when she draws her gun to cover all angles, and he doesn't doubt her when she tells him she has his back. There are other times when she's caught and can't get out of a situation and he waits for her, covers for her until she can get out. There have been still others when one of them has led and the other has followed, and there has never been any question or doubt.   
  
They carry out their tasks in synchrony with each other, and Sydney considers how much of it is them showing off for the other, and how much is genuine skill. And then...how much of it might be something else entirely.  
  
For as their time together increases she finds herself aching for him in the hours they are apart, asking herself if this new desire will only further her isolation or forge a new ally for her. And in their moments together, that time is the only thing that matters to her, and what makes the moments in between worth sustaining.  
  
  
* * * * *   
  
A few weeks have gone by when Sark meets her in Potsdam one day, in Sanssouci Park. When he finds her she's looking out from the palace courtyard, and as she turns at the sound of his footsteps she watches him walk down the tiered steps to meet her half way. The air around them is cold and brisk and snow covers the ground, but the sky above them is blue and clear. As he approaches, she feels herself warming.   
  
"I suppose you know this isn't exactly the height of tourist season," he asks her, one eyebrow arched in question. His breath forms heated clouds in the air between them.  
  
Sydney nods, hinting at a contented smile. "That's the idea." She turns again to look out over the vast expanse of the park grounds, and feels his presence behind her. The air she breathes in refreshes her, almost as much as the protective embrace he offers. There is no one else around this morning, and indeed the only sound that disturbs their scene is the sound of the wind through bare trees.   
  
For a moment, they stand in comfortable silence as he rests his arms around her. He tucks her beneath his chin and then bends to press his lips to her temple. She closes her eyes for a moment, lingering in the sensation as she feels a flush move across her cheeks and neck.   
  
Sark bends lower as his lips find the graceful curve of her neck below her jacket collar, and she can't help but smile and lean against him. Even from the first moments of intimacy between them, such simple gestures have been all that they needed to ignite the physical connection that they share. It surprised her at first - and still does, really - but nonetheless has shifted towards a comfort that she cannot help but revel in.  
  
But when she turns back to him her expression has changed again, as she revisits the thoughts that have always occupied her in the last few months, and the questions she has chosen not to follow. His hands linger below her shoulders as she wraps her arms around herself, still deciding how to find the words she knows will break through this tentative connection they have found.   
  
Her gaze lifts to meet his, and his expression turns to curiosity. A shallow sigh escapes him and he straightens. "What is it?"  
  
She blinks back as her gaze falters for a moment, and the words come to her finally, haltingly. "Five years ago..." she starts, "Five years ago, you died," she says, a half-question.  
  
He nods after a moment, understanding this appraisal. "Yes."  
  
"I need to ask," she reveals, more confidently now. "I need to know how, why...I can't be with you and not know any of this."  
  
He takes in a breath, inhaling as he considers where to begin again. There's more than what he told her on that first night; there's much more between them left to be uncovered. His hands rub along her arms as if warming her further, and he nods again.   
  
"All right."  
  
And they turn down the stairs towards the fountain, before continuing on the path to the west, preparing for the revelations that will come.   
  
  
* * * * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More secrets are revealed, and Sydney comes to a decision.

* * * * *   
  
They walk together, feet crunching against the snow that lines their paths. Most of the trees and shrubs are bare, and their calm voices appear almost intrusive against the landscape. Still, they know no one will overhear them; silence blankets their surroundings.   
  
"Five years ago, as you know," he begins, "I escaped from CIA custody. There was an accident involving the security van that was transporting me from one facility to another."  
  
"An accident?" It's only a half-question, mostly a confirmation. She wonders how accidental it truly was.   
  
The corners of his mouth turn gently upward, signaling that he understands this. "Yes," is all he will answer there for now. "It wasn't long after that, when I found out that Sloane and Nadia had perished," he tells her, and she experiences a moment of regret and sadness as she remembers the time when she herself learned of their deaths.   
  
Their search for Rambaldi's mythic 'Sphere of Light' had taken Sloane and her sister literally to the ends of the Earth, to the vast and forbidding expanse of Antarctica. An ice shelf had collapsed underneath them, or so the reports had said. They were never seen again, and any other trace of knowledge of the Sphere had vanished with them.   
  
Sydney's eyes close for a moment as she remembers, turning away her downcast expression. She'd been acquainted with her sister for such a short while, and whatever relief or satisfaction she had felt over Sloane's death was quickly overshadowed by the knowledge that she would never truly know her sister. It's not a memory she chooses to return to very often.  
  
She clears her throat, moving her thoughts along and urging Sark to continue. "There was the fire."  
  
His eyebrows lift for a moment. "Yes, the fire. I know that was reportedly an accident as well, but I knew the real story behind it." He slips his hands into his coat pockets as he talks. "There was already a great deal of unrest within the Covenant at that time. Bomani had been executed a few months earlier. Cole's attempts at control had gained ground in North America but were still tenuous in other cells. Lauren's death was also a setback." His pauses in his words for a moment, and Sydney looks at him only briefly. He doesn't meet her gaze, concentrating instead on the path ahead and the rest of his story.  
  
"At the time I had thought that the North American cell was an isolated situation, and that if I was able to rise within it, there would be even broader authority to be claimed," he continued. "However, after Sloane disappeared it was clearer to me how chaotic Covenant operations had become. The European and Asiatic cells had been experiencing similar problems, and without Rambaldi as a powerful goal..." he trailed off for a moment.   
  
"In short, the Covenant was fragmenting," he said. "There was very little stability. At that time, I had a contact in Taipei who informed me of a meeting that was happening between several higher echelon Covenant operatives. I decided to attend and observe from behind the scenes. It was a private club and I managed to arrange for surveillance throughout the meeting.  
  
"It didn't take long for it to become clear how the meeting was progressing. There was very little constructive dialogue, to say the least, and the participants became increasingly agitated. I was beginning to wonder if there would be an opportunity to interrupt when the opportunity was taken from me. Two of the Asiatic members drew concealed weapons, and before anyone else could react, a hidden sniper fired on the rest of the party. The meeting had simply been a cover for an orchestrated hit - a vicious coup."  
  
He takes in a breath and exhales, pausing as he collects his memories further. Sydney's fingers grow chilled inside her gloves and she closes and opens her hands to restore the circulation.   
  
"I'm still not sure if the fire was started purposefully or by accident," Sark adds. "In any case it was only within minutes that the blaze started."   
  
Sydney continues to listen, and turns back to look at him as he explained this. She tries to picture what that night must have been like, and then reminds herself how easily he must have accomplished something like that. He'd done worse things, she was well aware - and so had she, for that matter.   
  
As her thoughts come into sharper focus she finds more questions coming to her. "But, you still survived."  
  
"Indeed. The coup leaders were fast, but I intercepted them before they could leave the club. I eliminated them, stole their portfolios, and that was the end of Julian Sark."  
  
"And the Covenant still crumbled after that night," she adds. "The CIA couldn't make sense of it for days afterwards."  
  
"True," he nods. "And yes, I'm sure it was confusing."  
  
Her brow furrows as she considers how to press him further. But she doesn't need to. He continues to explain, a wry expression on his face. He's enjoying this now, she can tell.  
  
"I really couldn't have planned it better if I'd tried. Within the Covenant group that met that night, there was a young Australian man whose superiors were the same men who orchestrated the attack."  
  
"Let me guess," she interrupts. "Tall, slim, blond hair..."  
  
"Precisely," he confirms for her. "I believe it was your Agents who first assigned my identity to his body. It did give me a certain amount of pleasure to learn that I was presumed dead - it made my transition into a new identity that much easier."  
  
Sydney stops in her tracks, then, and he pauses a step or two ahead of her and turns to face her. They've stopped near one of the park's gazebos, and as she speaks she leans up against the edge of its arched entrance. He stands facing her from the other side.   
  
"You witnessed the single-handed destruction of the entire Covenant leadership, gained access to their finances, avoided investigation by the CIA or anyone else for that matter...and then you simply walked away?"   
  
"In a word, yes."  
  
She's trying to think of what to say next, a little confused at this. This doesn't sound like the opportunistic assassin she once thought she knew. Still, now she's starting to understand why he's seemed somewhat different from the man she knew before.   
  
"Sydney, in our line of work one doesn't refuse a second chance," he reasons. "Or a third, or fourth, for that matter. At the time I'd just spent a year of supposed freedom being blackmailed by the Covenant, and then trying to gain back whatever authority my inheritance could possibly give me. But there was nowhere else to go then, not after Sloane's death and not after such an enormous loss of purpose.   
  
"What happened in Taipei gave me an escape route, and a very lucrative one at that. I immediately set about transferring funds and liquidating what assets I could, and abandoned everything else. For a while I moved around eastern Europe and Asia - a year or two, perhaps a little longer than that. When I was confident Evan Crane wouldn't be recognized in the English-speaking world, I moved back to England."   
  
He takes a small step towards her, waiting, apparently at a loss as to what else to offer her. She's reminded of their confrontation in his apartment on that first night between them, when she questioned his motivations and he challenged her right back in return.   
  
"Still looking for something else?" he asks, as if provoking her once more.  
  
It's her turn to acknowledge this, and she shrugs a little. "Maybe I am," she admits. Even as she says this she asks herself again what sort of situation she has gotten herself into. Here she stands with this man, calmly reviewing life histories as if some sort of bizarre professional reunion is taking place.   
  
Sydney raises a hand to brush away a few errant strands of hair from her face, thinking. This is the second time he's been willing to reveal more of his past to her, and although she knows she should return the gesture, she's not sure exactly where to begin. She also suspects that whatever she might have to disclose will be far less surprising than anything he has already told her, and that makes her feel vulnerable in a way she hasn't experienced in a long time.  
  
"I suppose I could ask you the same thing," she offers. "Why would you explain all of this to me if you weren't expecting me to do the same?"  
  
Sark doesn't respond with words, at least not yet. He simply looks back at her, waiting, as if there has never been any doubt that she would have answered. And in truth, that silence is what gives her the final push over the edge; the emptiness waiting to be filled.   
  
"I never left the CIA," she says finally, her voice quiet but calm.   
  
He blinks, nods back. "I suspected as much."  
  
At his answer, she feels an unexpected warmth flare at her cheeks that she knows is frustration. Rationally, she has known for months how likely this was, and yet to hear him say as much returns her so quickly to the same sense of isolation she knew before. _Of course he already knew that._ Her world suddenly seems very small, again.  
  
Still, she pushes ahead, the need to explain is suddenly too strong. It's been so long since she revisited this part of her life with anyone who would listen so carefully.  
  
Sydney swallows, steeling herself. "It was easy for me to do, for a while," she says, as she takes a few steps forward. She moves past him, looking over her shoulder and inviting him to continue next to her. He does so, a thoughtful expression on his face, and lets her tell whatever piece of her story she's willing to tell.  
  
"After Sloane, and Nadia..." she shrugs a little at this, not needing to explain further what she means. "I returned to work willingly, thinking it would help me try to make sense of things. And it did, then. I started to think that it was how my life was supposed to be - what it would always be like.  
  
"Vaughn and I were married a few months later," she adds, her gaze falling, intent on the path a few paces ahead. "And that was good, too, for a while."   
  
For a moment her face takes on a relaxed, almost nostalgic expression. There are some things she doesn't mind remembering. "We were both promoted, started going on fewer missions. I could choose which ones I wanted to take myself, and which ones I wanted to co-ordinate on and stay behind. There was more desk work, and then more meetings."  
  
"But you chose to come here, eventually," he observes, pressing her a little.   
  
"Yes, eventually." She sighs, pushing back her hair after a breeze travels past them. A minute passes in silence as she decides where to continue. "I had always thought we would have children," she explains. "So did Vaughn. The timing was right, and we tried." She shakes her head. "We probably tried for almost a year, and nothing. I finally visited a specialist and they told me how low my chances were, particularly after what happened when the Covenant took me. They said I was most likely barren."   
  
The scar across her abdomen has faded just slightly in the many years since she received it, and although most days she pays it the same slight attention as the rest of her memories of her life before, it's still there, nonetheless. It will never be something she will be able to forget.   
  
"There was a while when I spent a lot of energy being angry, again. I was mad at the Covenant all over again for what they'd done to me, at Rambaldi for inventing that Prophecy that seemed to still control my life."  
  
For a moment she glances over at Sark and thinks she sees a flicker of recognition, but then it passes and once again his expression reflects only his patient attention to her words.   
  
"In any case, Vaughn and I started to have a hard time after that. I kept putting more and more energy into my work at the CIA; it was the only thing I knew how to do. And then, one day, I came home and realized that, whatever we had together, it wasn't a marriage." She takes in a breath, collecting her thoughts, and then shrugs again. "I always thought that when a relationship ends, it must be because of some single event or argument or infidelity. As it turned out, it wasn't so much about what happened as what didn't happen.   
  
"We'd had so long to try to make it work and had gotten used to fighting so many obstacles...I don't know, maybe in the end that was what we needed to convince ourselves. It was as if we'd stopped trying to prove how much we belonged with each other. We didn't fight or debate or argue, nothing like that. Both of us knew it had ended, and we separated soon after. A few months after the divorce was finalized, I found out they were looking for someone to send to Berlin, and I did everything I could to get the assignment."  
  
Sydney brings herself to meet his gaze again, curious at what he thinks, now. His brow was creased slightly in understanding, and now when he turns to look back at her it is with such an expression of clarity that she pauses again in response. In fact, his lips are curved gently in a satisfied smile, and confusion washes over her.   
  
She feels suddenly numb. Even after all this time, there's a part of her that's still painfully hurt that her life with Vaughn didn't turn out the way it was supposed to, and by God she doesn't need him to remind her of that. "Does this amuse you?" she challenges him.   
  
He shakes his head immediately, stepping towards her once again to close the gap between them. "Not at all. On the contrary, I think it's extraordinary." His head shakes again, more gently this time. "We're not so different, Sydney, not really."  
  
"I don't understand what you mean," she says, uncertain now.  
  
"Don't you see?" he asks, his expression impossibly light. "What Taipei was for me, Berlin is for you. We both had our second chances, and we've taken them."  
  
It's the first time anyone has framed her life in this way, before, but now that he's said it she realizes its truth. Even so, there's something else that still pulls at her. "All this time," she says, "You knew what I was doing here, and you never said anything? You never thought it would be a threat to you?"  
  
He exhales again, slowly, as if carefully considering his answer. "At first, yes. It was certainly a possibility. But then I added up what was happening in the operations and how long you'd been there and concluded that your target must be Faber himself. And of course you couldn't have anticipated my arrival, so I was sure the element of surprise would play to my advantage."  
  
She's more than a little startled to hear him talking like this. Suddenly it's as though their entire relationship could be summarized according to strategy and espionage, and she doesn't know what to think, now.   
  
He takes a step closer to her, as if trying to explain himself before she has the chance to ask these questions. "All I'm saying is that I guessed that my presence was not involved in your immediate goal, whatever it was - or is," he adds pointedly. "And to be honest, I rather preferred to have a positive working relationship with you than an antagonistic one."  
  
She arches an eyebrow, appraising him. "Profit?"  
  
He stiffens, just slightly. "I'm sure that didn't hurt, but actually I was thinking more along the lines of professional respect."  
  
This answer impresses her again, and she experiences a moment of guilt for assuming so easily that his motivations were entirely materialistic.   
  
Sark continues. "Sydney, even when you and I opposed each other, I never treated you with disdain. I was only ever intrigued by you. You had every reason to let yourself become broken and defeated, but you never gave in to any of it." He shakes his head again, and his gaze shifts away from her.   
  
"The only conclusion I've ever come to," he says then, "Is that there are no sides in this game that we're in - not really. It's all one chaotic and strange kind of order, and while there are many players to be reckoned with, and desires to be tallied, and hierarchies to be scaled... I don't believe you and I were ever meant to always stand in different corners of this world. I never did. And the reason you had my respect and my admiration when I came to this place is because you never lost them to begin with. You always had them."  
  
As he speaks Sydney finds herself agreeing with more and more of what he says, and arriving at a kind of understanding within herself. She doesn't feel isolated any more, not at all. Instead she feels some small vein of hope start to course through her, and in answer she can only stand and look back at him in wonder. Sark reaches for her hands, taking both of them in his and warming them further through her gloves. Words come to her, finally.   
  
"Before you came, I felt like I was waiting...always waiting for something to happen," she tells him. He watches her, listens. "I don't feel that way any more. I don't ever want to feel that way again, not if I have a choice," she admits, her lips quivering a little in the brisk air.   
  
She can tell he must want to say something further, but then just as suddenly as that sense of comfort descended on her, she feels a twinge of bittersweet longing. It strikes her so immediately she can only shut her eyes closed before him, and pull away a gloved hand to press across her mouth.   
  
Sark reaches for her, his breath close enough to warm her cheek, and his voice strong enough to convey his concern. "Sydney..."  
  
"You see, it's just that you're so different from him," she interrupts him, voice wavering. "I loved him for so many years. I loved him so much it was almost painful for me. And yet...when I'm with you, I want you so much that it scares me," she reveals finally as she has to swallow against the lump in her throat.  
  
His hands rise to her face, just as his expression shifts again towards something that hints at both frustration and compassion. His fingers brush along her hair and cheek, and she lifts her hands to rest on top of his. "You're not the only one who feels that way, you know," he tells her. "And I must say... it's a fear that I'm still getting used to."   
  
Sydney watches him, assessing every word and gesture and hidden vulnerability, and comes to understand how he has indeed given her his trust, and how easily he could be undone by it. Even as she considers this she longs to be able to give him everything he has given her, wishes she could unlock that full measure of trust and give it to him as easily as she has given the rest of herself.  
  
She leans into him, wrapping her arms around him and resting her cheek on his shoulder, and starts to believe again that such things are possible.   
  
  
* * * * *  
  
They walk together a while longer, and the silence that surrounds them finds Sydney surprisingly at peace. That night, she leads him to her own apartment for the first time, and pours him a drink from the bottle of Bourbon she'd bought so many nights ago and had yet to open.   
  
He sips from it gladly, and when she realizes he cannot take his eyes away from her she feels herself blushing, and is at a loss to explain why. She takes her own glass and her own sip of the golden liquid, swallows and feels it flame in her throat and down to her belly, and her mouth waters a little in anticipation of more.  
  
She starts telling him something about the building, how old it is and how she found it in the first place, but her voice trails off when he comes to stand next to her; the warmth of his body radiates and finds all of her senses at once. It's not the apartment or the alcohol or even her words that he cares for now. He takes her hand, pressing her lips across her fingers and smiling at her in the way she has come to know so intimately.   
  
Today he has revealed so much more of himself to her, so much more of Julian Sark than she knew before. Her own secrets have been laid bare to him and she has come away unscathed, instead feeling more bound to him than ever. These thoughts occupy her and make her pause when she turns to face him again. As she meets his gaze he pauses, as if startled by her expression.   
  
So many times she has stood with him, like this, and been at a loss to describe how she feels. Definition still escapes her now, despite the emotion that overpowers her when she is with him. And not only does she realize this now, but she finds herself at a loss to remember another time in her life when she has felt just this way. _Perhaps this is what love is,_ a voice tells her in her mind.   
  
The thought startles her, enough for her to withdraw her hand and hesitate. She looks back at her reflection in the window and watches him step towards her again. Her eyes blink back furiously at a glimmer of moisture that has suddenly gathered, and her arms wrap around her waist.   
  
His hands come to rest at her hips, as he leans his temple cautiously against hers. Her hands shift slightly, clasping his once again, and she swallows.  
  
"Sydney, what is it?" he asks her in a near-whisper, his voice low and resonant.   
  
Her answer stops in her throat, and she can't begin to think of the words to explain it to him. She's already having trouble explaining to herself - how she could have come to feel this way for him, and why, and what it might mean.   
  
And so she doesn't answer just yet; instead she turns in his arms to press her lips against his. After a brief hesitation, and what she can only guess is debate over whether to press her further, he kisses her back just as fiercely. He pulls her to him, plunging his hands into her hair and letting them roam along her body. His lips part from hers and plant kisses along her cheek, encountering a hint of dampness at her eye and making him pause there ever so slightly.  
  
She lets his lips travel along her skin as far as they can, along her neck and torso until he raises them once more to her mouth, plundering and seeking and searching for response. His tongue strokes against hers and she can still taste the Bourbon, and her fingers thread through his hair and pull him even closer. As he wraps his arms around her she does the same for him, responding so deeply and so easily she cannot understand how she ever knew anything but this.  
  
  
* * * * *   
  
Few words pass between them, on most days. Whatever new bond they have chosen for themselves appears virtually unspoken, often revealing itself in brief gestures or expressions.   
  
Rationally, Sydney knows that their affair can only work in her favour, given the story they first told Faber. Irrationally, she knows how suddenly she has become accustomed to the company of Julian Sark, and how one glance from him across a crowded room calls up instant memories and makes her forget everything else.   
  
Rationally, she asks herself how long they will be able to carry on like this, since inevitably her CIA assignment will once again be set in motion, and her charade will need to be made clear. Irrationally, she begins to wonder how deeply this assignment truly matters to her.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
There are days, still, when she cannot help but look back. It's a habit she began after four or five months away; She'd stopped it for a while but now feels the need to look back, however briefly.   
  
She searches for him, finds out what small details are available to a woman with her passcodes and encrypted server access. She can't help herself. In the nightclub that fall, when her father told her Vaughn was transferred to Langley, it wasn't the news of the transfer that surprised her the most; she already knew about that. What she hadn't known was that Vaughn had requested the transfer himself.   
  
Since that November night she hasn't given this other man - _partner, lover, husband, friend_ \- another thought. And yet one day, one cold day in January, she finds herself wondering, wanting a hint of the life she left behind and the people whose very appearance she's nearly forgotten.   
  
What she finds isn't a complete surprise - indeed, she'd come to expect it one day or another. Nevertheless, she feels her hands freeze above the keyboard as she reads the marriage notice for Michael Vaughn and Melissa Lee, a licensed medical doctor who works for the State Department.   
  
She stands up, shutting the laptop closed.   
  
She won't search again.  
  
  
* * * * *   
  
They're together late one evening early in the new year. The cold wind swirls again outside and leaves Sydney with pink cheeks when she arrives at Sark's door. He kisses her long and deeply in greeting, in the way that makes her almost forget where she is and the job she was doing earlier that day. In the last week she's been sent out twice on Faber's behalf, and although she's nearly exhausted she feels her energy returning now.   
  
Inside, he gestures towards the living room and she notices the fire burning in the fire place, something they've only tried once before. She smiles back at him, a calm and comfortable expression, and slips her hand into his as he leads her inside. She's feeling warmer by the second.   
  
He leaves her at the dining table to step over to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of white wine. She's brought olives, something she's discovered lately that he likes. He uncorks the chilled bottle and searches for glasses.   
  
They have become companions, she sees now. As she thinks back on their time together and the hesitation that first made her pause, it all seems so strange that they would have started that way. When she's with him now she can never truly ignore their circumstances, as much as she might like to - still, there is such desire, and a protective fierceness she never expected.   
  
Sydney watches him pour her a glass of wine, and then listens to him start to tell her about the dinner he has planned for them. That thought warms her further, and she smiles gently back at him although he cannot see it.   
  
She opens one of the small containers she has brought and pulls out an olive, tasting it. When he comes back to her and gives her the glass of wine she takes it, and offers him the other half of the olive. He lowers his mouth to her hand, biting into the olive and enjoying the flavour. His lips linger for a moment, tasting the oil still left on her fingers.  
  
She smiles back, reading the hungry expression he returns to her, and presses a kiss onto his lips. There she tastes the olive and the wine, and the heady sensation of his mouth pressed against hers still never fails to make her go weak in the knees.  
  
But she takes her seat on one of the kitchen stools, and knows how it must frustrate him when she insists that he finish whatever he's doing and be patient. She sips from her wine and watches him as he works, responding mildly with whatever snippets of conversation he can draw out of her. His hands are as skilled in the kitchen as anywhere else, and the meal is finished and ready before she can find a way to tease him further.   
  
As they eat he watches her enjoy every bite, but although the food is wonderful it doesn't compare at all with the company she enjoys it with. At that moment, she feels the most content that she has felt in years, and whatever memories she had that might have come close, are already being replaced in her mind. She craves nothing else but what is here, now.   
  
Later she takes her turn and cleans up afterwards, enjoying his amused expression as he watches her run soapy water and a scrub brush across the few pots and pans and plates that they have used. She takes her time, working patiently and noting the expression on his face.   
  
They don't bother with dessert, or music, or wine, or anything else. Every other need has been satiated except one, and she's not surprised or daunted in the least when she steps out of his kitchen and his arms close immediately around her. Their clothes can't come off fast enough, and soon there is no time or need to make it as far as the bedroom.   
  
The fire still glows in the fireplace and its light and warmth are almost an afterthought. They come together fiercely, aching for each other's touch. She longs as strongly as ever to feel him against her, inside of her, and the force of their passion all but silences her.   
  
She offers him all that she is, all that she can give to him; he meets her desire at every step, every touch, each caress and heated breath. She screams his name only seconds before he does the same for her, driving her to the edge and then over it completely as they grasp at each other, as though nothing else has ever mattered.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
The fire is still warm against their skin a short while later, and they lie next to each other with hands and arms still entwined. Her breathing has slowed once more, resuming that shallow and relaxed rhythm that so often accompanies sleep. But both of them still lie awake, absorbed in the other's company.   
  
"I have a confession to make," he says, interrupting their reverie and propping himself up on one elbow and looking down at her.   
  
"Mm?" Sydney's stretched out underneath their blankets, the firelight glinting across them and making her skin glow. At first she's still relaxed enough not to understand the seriousness in his voice. But as she turns to look at him she sees his expression and knows he isn't playing. "What is it?" There's a note of concern in her voice.  
  
His gaze shifts for a moment before he looks back at her and starts to elaborate. "About that first night between us, when you came to me and asked me why I was here in the first place..."  
  
Her interest is piqued, to say the least, and she turns her body to face him as he continues. "What are you talking about?" She feels the swell of concern start to knot into anxiety in the pit of her stomach.  
  
Sark takes in a breath and exhales again, slowly. "The truth is, I wasn't completely honest when I said I had no particular agenda in choosing to work with Faber," he admits.  
  
Tension returns to her altogether then as she registers this, making her sit slowly upright in dawning apprehension. "What do you mean?" She doesn't like having to ask so many questions.  
  
He swallows, leaning up against the pillows they were previously sharing. "Truthfully, I probably would have come here anyhow, but...in the end I came because I found out you were here," he tells her, his gaze lifting to meet hers with the final words of this revelation.   
  
"You see," he continues, "For so many years I stared at this picture that someone drew five hundred years ago, and asked myself if it could truly be your face that looked back at me," he tells her.   
  
As he speaks, Sydney can only watch him in wonder, curious at what exactly he means by this. She's sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest and a blanket pulled up to her shoulders, and as he begins to reveal this tale to her she can feel his touch along the bare curve of her back. His fingers stroke the rhythm of his words, a gesture more reassuring than anything he could say to her.   
  
Since Sark first joined Faber - and especially over the winter months since Sydney's narrow escape and the early days of their intimacy, the two of them have gradually revealed more about themselves to each other. She looks into the fire as he continues to speak, wondering what else he could possibly say to her that she hasn't heard already. But she's tethered to him, his touch somehow electric and gentle at the same time.  
  
And he begins to tell her - or rather he continues to tell her, finishing the story they began on that first night between them.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
He knew that her marriage had failed, had heard rumours that her position within the CIA was unstable.   
  
When he'd found out how Sloane and Nadia had perished in their search for the Sphere of Light, an anger had come over him, borne of frustration and indignation that so much of what he had done now held no direction or purpose. Sloane vanished and so did his records. All the years Sark had spent working with Irina, and then Sloane, working towards what he thought was a powerful goal... All that was now lost.   
  
That sense of having no direction was what drew Sark towards the position in which he found himself now. He could make use of the only skills he knew he could rely upon, and had indeed been truthful when he'd explained that to her.   
  
As Sydney too had discovered, the Rambaldi quest now existed largely in memory. In the eyes of the CIA, Rambaldi was a failed objective, and there was the occasional moment when she knew they considered her a potential security risk. Officially, the CIA had told her they did not consider her a threat, nor were they able to verify what it meant if she was indeed the 'Chosen One' from the Prophecy.   
  
But still, Sydney herself had known those words couldn't be completely true. She saw the way some of her superiors looked at her whenever someone mentioned Rambaldi, even as a joke. She knew that they still wondered about her. Indeed, as she had already begun tell him... That atmosphere had made it all the more effortless for her to request the assignment to Berlin, and here she was on the verge of folding her whole assignment if the CIA couldn't find a way to breach Faber's system.   
  
For Sark, who had spent most of his career in the service of those who believed in the works of Rambaldi, such theories and histories were not easily banished. Even without any of the same equipment or documents he'd had before, he couldn't forget about the projects, not completely. And Sydney Bristow somehow existed at the centre of it all, and as a result he had never been able to look at her and not wonder what it all meant.   
  
Prophecy or no Prophecy, he believed that the strength and passion she could possess were immeasurable, if only she would allow herself to accept them. And if he was to spend so many years of his life in the company and employ of those such as Irina Derevko, Arvin Sloane, McKenas Cole...and even Johannes Faber...then by God he wanted the chance to spend some of them with Sydney Bristow.   
  
Nevertheless, until the day arrived in Faber's office and he watched Sydney walk in to greet him, Sark had started to think that perhaps Rambaldi really was worth giving up. He'd started to re-think any idea of a Prophecy or even that he would ever see Sydney's face again - whether on paper or in person. And then she walked back into his life, and he felt the immediacy of her presence and the defiance of her beauty, and felt that whatever faith he had would be thrown into question all over again.  
  
For from where he'd stood then he could read the emotion behind her shell of skill, and the exhaustion in her spirit. Whatever she was feeling, the proximity of it had startled him. He'd felt as though the only person in the world who could possibly stand as his equal was directly in front of him. And he had kissed her hand as though it was the only way in the world to greet such a woman, and known he would never leave Faber's operation as long as she was there with him.   
  
  
* * * * *  
  
She sits silently, still watching the fire as she has done throughout his explanation of these events, and of the connection between her and Rambaldi that she thought she'd managed to escape.   
  
"Why didn't you tell me any of this before? Why didn't you tell me that night when I came to see you? Or that day in the park?" She feels conflicted, and more than a little angry at this sudden intrusion of Rambaldi into her life - let alone into this relationship that's taken her this long to finally believe in.   
  
"Because I knew what you'd been through that day, and before, and I was afraid if I told you that much more you'd walk away and I'd never see you again." His voice reveals his honesty, but he isn't emotional or fearful, as far as she can tell. He's simply telling her something he's never told her before, and needing her to understand.  
  
Her breath escapes her in a loud exhalation, and she rests her head in her hands.   
  
"I thought I was finished with it all," she says, brushing her hair away from her face. "With Rambaldi. And then every time I think that, something happens that reminds me of it again, and I realize I won't ever really be finished with it...And I can't live that way forever," she adds finally.   
  
She turns to him, facing her body toward his and looking back with a determined expression. "Tell me," she says. "I need to know if any of it was ever true," she demands without any further explanation. Her voice wavers slightly, as if restrained. "The Prophecy, the Chosen One, the Passenger...Was it all just myth? Was any of it real?"  
  
He sits up to face her, too, as if unprepared for the force of her reaction. "You never asked me any of this before."  
  
She shakes her head. "I never wanted to believe any of it, before. I never needed to."  
  
His expression shows his confusion. "You never needed to, until now?"  
  
"When I chose to come to Berlin...I admit, it was partly because I wanted to get away, to try to start fresh. But I think, even more than that, I needed something I could control. There were so many things that happened to change my life, before, that all revolved around Rambaldi and his convoluted prophecies," she says. "It was too much, eventually, more than I could handle. I needed to do something that was my decision and not that of some five hundred-year-old dead man."  
  
He hesitates, unsure where to start, and finally shakes his head, leaning his elbows on his knees. "I don't know," is the only answer he can give her then.   
  
She doesn't answer him, simply turns away back towards the fire, watching the light for a moment. And then, just as abruptly as he began his confession, she stands up and begins searching for her clothes.   
  
Sark watches her for half a moment in startled skepticism, in disbelief that she would actually leave after a declaration such as this; she's stayed with him for so many nights through so many questions and doubts and fears, and now after such a truthful revelation she's going to leave.   
  
"Sydney, wait..." he starts then, following her actions and pulling on his trousers that lie nearby. "There's more to talk about, here..."  
  
She's ahead of him, and is already slipping on her sweater above her jeans, and reaching for her boots. "Don't," she stops him, her tone both decisive and defensive.   
  
He's surprised at her, that much she can tell. After so many moments of shared intimacy she can only imagine the confusion that she will create by running away from this conversation. But she doesn't care. In her mind as well there is only confusion, and all she can feel is anger and indignation. _Fucking Rambaldi._  
  
She's throwing her coat over her arm and grabbing her handbag, and she's made it halfway towards the door before he reaches her and stops her. His hand touches her arm and she shrugs it away. Finally, she turns to him again, knowing the pained expression she must be showing him.  
  
"I can't do this, Sark. Not now, not with you...Not after everything that's happened..." Her words trail off and one hand gestures at the air. She doesn't know how to begin to explain to him what's thinking; she can't even explain it to herself.   
  
"Sydney," he starts again, stepping closer to her. "I must have turned the world upside down, trying to understand why Rambaldi chose you," he tells her. "It was Sloane who led the project, but there were many times when that distinction was irrelevant to me. Since that parchment was uncovered, not a year of my career before went by when I did not work to find out why you were meant to stand at the centre of his Prophecy."  
  
"I never asked for any of this," she says, her voice wavering, breaking the silence. "Why me? Why would he choose me?"   
  
He sighs, a shallow breath. "I wish I knew," is all he can offer. "I've been trying to make sense of it, myself." He turns towards her again. "You're not the only one who feels helpless in all of this."  
  
She looks down at her hands, skeptical. Her mind races, and she can't figure out what she feels right now. The hesitation she thought had passed has returned to her stronger than ever, and even as she stands across from this man who has done so much for her, she feels paralysed. Anger still burns inside of her; frustration at feeling so helpless once again. Her coat and bag are weights in her arms, and she doesn't know what to say or do next.   
  
Sark speaks again, trying to give her an answer that will offer more than the unknown. "I suppose the truth is, I don't know if any of it was ever real or not," he answers finally, after a silence. "Perhaps we believed it was real because we said it was."  
  
The quietness returns as she looks back at him again. "I don't know what to say to that," she answers finally.  
  
He shakes his head, shifting closer to her. "You don't need to say anything. Don't go, either, please. Not yet. I didn't tell you any of this to make you afraid, or angry, I only wanted..." he sighs, correcting himself. "I didn't want to keep this from you."  
  
She shrugs her shoulders for a moment, and shakes her head as she searches for words. "I just want to know how it ends," she tells him finally, her voice nearly a whisper.   
  
He pauses, his expression offering her more compassion than she's ever seen from him. "I wish I knew, love," he answers. "I wish I knew."  
  
It's all such a declaration, so much disclosure coming from him, and she knows she should feel glad of it - it's the reciprocation she's wondered about. But the weight of his words is too much all at once, more than she thought she would be able to carry. He's far too calm, too forgiving for her now - she wants him to press her back, fight against what she's just asked him, scream questions at her. Anything to make her believe again that he is infallible, and that it doesn't matter if she can't be strong enough for both of them. And at the same time she doesn't want that strength any more; she wants to escape it and retreat back to the few things she knows are certain.  
  
She hears her breath shake from her in ragged sighs. Suddenly she feels nothing but the need to escape, to run from here and try to forget the things she is going to need to ask him to forgive.   
  
The olives and wine and the fire, and everything else, are forgotten. She doesn't hear the words he calls after her when she rushes past him, clutching her belongings and reaching for the doorknob as if it is a life raft. She opens the door and makes her way through the hallway and down the stairs, hearing only the sound of her own footsteps echoing around her.  
  
  
* * * * *   
  
The next day at the office is an awkward one, and Sydney finds her attention drifting back to the previous night. Her conversation with Sark has left her shaken, calling up the fears and frustrations she had tried so hard to leave buried.   
  
Sark's still there, at the periphery, keeping his professional distance and saying nothing. _Not that he would say anything here anyhow,_ she reminds herself, and for a brief moment is glad of the anonymity of her covert post. For once, Faber's operation provides an almost reassuring escape route, and she does everything she can to keep her thoughts focussed on the tasks she needs to do.   
  
Nonetheless, it doesn't help that Faber's still watching her as closely as ever. That's something that hasn't changed - his word on that has held, since that day Sark helped her outrun Faber's men. Except this time, she notices the hinted curiosity in his glance, the smug appearance of propriety and intuition. On any other day she could move right past it and be comforted - fuelled, even - by the knowledge that she possesses and the reassurance of her newfound companion. But today he turns that glance towards her and she wants nothing else but to smack her hand across his cheek and wipe the smirk from Johannes Faber's face.   
  
He calls her into his office and hands her a briefing folder.   
  
"I need someone to go to Hamburg and check in on a few things. Nothing major. I'd do it myself if I wasn't already quite preoccupied with the arrangements in New York."  
  
"Of course," she answers, glancing at the documents. There isn't even a full twenty-four hours worth of work here.   
  
"Normally I'd send the two of you together, but I don't think that will be necessary this time," he tells her, a curious glint in his eye. He doesn't need to mention Sark's name, for her to know whom he's referring to.  
  
Sydney looks up from the folder, restraining the defensive reaction she feels against his arrogance. "No, I don't think this will be too much trouble at all. I don't mind going alone." She blinks slowly, her composure remaining steady. The folder falls closed in her hands and lets it rest in the crook of her arm.   
  
He waits for a moment before nodding back to her, as if in triumphant salutation of his observation. "Excellent," he says airily. "Be sure to report back in when you return. I want to know if anything is out of place."  
  
"Certainly," she answers, without a smile or additional confirmation. "See you then." She turns and leaves briskly,   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
When Faber sends her to Hamburg the next day, she leaves willingly. She reviews shipping lists and hands over wrapped packets of Euros, and all the while she can hardly concentrate on the tasks. Her mind is elsewhere.  
  
The day after that she's been given very little to do, and so she finds herself taking a late afternoon stroll along _die Linden_ and contemplating the January scene. She knows very well that she's avoiding Sark, and is comfortable with that for the moment. She's trying to figure out what bothered her the most about his words, trying to make sense of how it all fits into her own life and what she knows.   
  
For a half an hour she walks the paths, her leisurely pace concealing the turbulence of her thoughts. After a while she stops at one of the empty benches beneath the trees and sits. One hand lifts to her forehead and she leans into it, thinking.   
  
Is it too much to believe that he should be so fascinated by her? To believe that he should feel the need to protect her, even here? Or is it not so much a need as a desire? And what if Rambaldi's works really aren't completely dormant - what will happen if someone finds his path again and begins to follow it to her?   
  
She covers her face with her hands, contemplating all of these questions. And still, beneath the surface of these lies another set of doubts, ones she is only now starting to see. Perhaps it's not so much the intrusion of Rambaldi that bothers her; perhaps it's the very idea that the implications of Rambaldi's works have allowed her to become such a central figure in another person's life.   
  
As she revisits their conversations yet one more time, she begins to see through the history and the agendas, and the alliances, and all the different players, and starts to see his words for what they have truly been. And surprisingly, what she sees holds promise. For in the place of duplicity she sees devotion, and along with his cunning and independence and skill, there is challenge, and strength, and passion.   
  
It's been three days since that last night between them, and already she feels herself longing for his touch, and an ache settling in her chest. And then suddenly, more than anything else, all she can think about are the words she left him with. _I want to know how it ends_ , she'd said. _I still do_. She also knows still, somehow, that she will find a way to succeed in her mission here and that Faber will fall. Any less would mean failure, and she is not prepared to accept that. As she is reminded of this she considers for the first time how these different paths might meet, or indeed, if they are even supposed to.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
Early the next morning she visits the Berliner Volksbank and accesses the secure safe deposit boxes she has used before. Once she's left alone with the box whose number she memorized a couple of months ago, she takes a seat and reviews the contents.  
  
Inside are the documents her CIA contacts have left for her most recently, and sitting on the very top is a piece of paper with instructions she'd almost given up on receiving. The page holds tentative instructions for the final infiltration and destruction of Johannes Faber's crime network, operating out of both Berlin and New York City.   
  
Her breath catches in her throat as she reads and re-reads this page. With shaking fingers she takes the rest of the documents and rifles through them, reading as fast as she can. As she reads, her mind races, and by the time she leaves the bank she is already formulating a response. She glances at her watch and starts to plan.   
  
  
* * * * *   
_  
"But lest you are my enemy,  
I must enquire."  
  
"O no, my dear, let all that be;  
What matter, so there is but fire  
In you, in me?"  
  
~v3, 'The Mask'_  
  
* * * * *   
  
It's been several days since she's seen Sark, and he hasn't tried to contact her either. Part of her wonders what he's thinking about all of this, but at the same time she doesn't need or want to ask.   
  
She waits for him now near the railroad tracks, far west of the city where the canal crosses the tracks and continues through a wide, forested expanse. It's dark, and close to midnight, and all of her senses are on the highest alert. As she leans against her car and watches the road, she finally sees his car pull up behind hers. She stands up straight and walks around towards him.  
  
His hands are tucked into the pockets of his jacket, and as she watches him approach she takes in the honesty in his expression. Still, any concern is underwritten by the determination that lies beneath.   
  
She pauses, stepping one or two paces towards him as he stops in front of her. At first neither of them speak, as if they are waiting to see what the other has to say. Sydney breaks the silence.   
  
"I'm not angry at you," she says first, realizing the truth of those words more completely now that she has spoken them. "Believe me when I tell you that. I'm not thrilled at the idea that Rambaldi's legacies and influence are still out there somewhere, waiting to change my life again." Her head shakes. "Here, with you... I thought I'd managed to leave it behind, and even though I know I was wrong to think that, it's still hard for me to accept."  
  
"I never wanted you to feel threatened," he says after a moment's pause. "I know how strange it must seem for me to say that, even now, but it's true."   
  
"I know," she answers simply. There is more that she could say, but she holds those words back - they're not the ones she wants to return to just now. Sydney's gaze lowers for a moment, as she collects her thoughts and then looks back and speaks again. "You told me that when you came here you knew that you wouldn't leave Faber's operation as long as I was there," she says.  
  
He nods. "Yes, I did."  
  
"Is that still true? What I mean is...if I leave, would you consider leaving with me? Even if it meant destroying Faber's entire operation?"   
  
What she's asking him is the most she could ever offer him, and is the only step she wants to take now. There are no other options she can arrive at besides this one, and the few seconds between her question and his response are a painful length of time to wait.   
  
He doesn't wait long, and steps closer to her as he answers. "Absolutely."  
  
Her breath escapes her in a ragged sigh, and the slightest hint of a smile plays at her lips. "I was hoping you'd say that," she says.   
  
"To be honest, I was rather wondering if you would ask," he admits. "And while I won't say the profits aren't very enticing," he says, his voice taking on a playful quality, "I must say that you, Sydney Bristow, entice me more," he tells her, as his voice returns to his earlier, more serious tone. "I don't want to lose you."  
  
Sydney's breathless for a moment, listening to this affirmation. There is often so much more beneath the surface of his words than she can see at first, but this time she sees right through them to their very truth, and knows what her answer to him must be.   
  
"I don't want to lose you either."   
  
A moment of silent comprehension passes between them, before they do all that is left to be done, and their lips meet. She's not sure if she leans in first or if he bends to meet her, but nevertheless the kiss is deep, instantly seeking confirmation of their desires and finding an immediate answer. His tongue is rough along hers and her lips, searching and probing, and she kisses him back in earnest.   
  
They part, and her fingers still linger along the edge of his face, tracing the line of his jaw in the dimness. She rests her hand at his chin, and brings her lips to his for a second, brief kiss. When she lifts her lips from his he gathers her in his arms, holding her closely and firmly to him and burying his head in her shoulder.   
  
For a moment she simply lingers in this sensation, sinking into his embrace as if for the last time, and hoping it will still be one of many more to come. Her relief is undeniable, but she isn't finished yet. She breathes in the scent of him - so close to her in the brisk night air that surrounds them - and steels herself to separate herself from him again. As they part fully she takes a step back, removing herself from the temptation to continue this scene. He looks back at her, confused at her sudden distance.   
  
"If we're going to do this, we have to do this together," she tells him, and he returns the same puzzled expression to her.  
  
"Of course, Sydney, but what are you..."  
  
His voice trails off as he watches her turn her head and look back towards her car.   
  
The passenger door opens, and although the evening light that surrounds them is still quite dim, it is enough for him to recognize the figure of Jack Bristow exit the vehicle. The surprise on Sark's face is clear, and he stiffens.   
  
Jack walks towards them and stops next to Sydney, his eyes never leaving his daughter's companion.   
  
"Mr. Sark, it's been quite a long time," he says, as if in greeting.  
  
The younger man can only nod, as he tries to make sense of this new factor in the equation. "Indeed," he answers.  
  
"I'll be brief," Jack tells him. "My trust in you is limited, but thankfully for you, that is a restraint my daughter does not share. If you are indeed the man she describes, then the CIA will be most grateful for your assistance in taking down the operations of a known international criminal."  
  
Sark looks back at her father as if assessing this situation from an entirely new angle. Sydney watches him and feels a pang of anxiety hit her as she clings to the threads of trust she has extended to him. She hopes she will have no reason to doubt them.  
  
"Sydney knows where I stand," he tells Jack, and she closes her eyes for a brief moment and wills the anxiety to pass. Her father exchanges a glance with her then, and she nods back for him to continue. And she stands and listens, as Jack Bristow explains to them what their next steps will be.   
  
  
* * * * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion.

* * * * *   
  
A few nights later, the plan has been completely arranged. In another twenty-four hours, if all goes well, Faber's operations will be in tatters, and Karen Sorensen and Evan Crane will no longer exist. Later today, Sark will travel to New York on Faber's behalf, and Sydney will remain in Berlin, and each will initiate their part of the destruct sequence that will allow waiting assault teams to then secure both premises by force.  
  
Simultaneously, giving Faber and his security teams very little time to retaliate, Sydney and Sark will introduce a uniquely engineered computer virus that will attack both networks. As the program works through the system, changing passcodes and deleting files and disabling response mechanisms, it will also activate a link to the CIA's secure server, permanently transferring files out of Faber's network and into the hands of the CIA.   
  
Once this process has been initiated, assault teams will enter the buildings and take over. Still, it will be up to the two of them to withdraw, and avoid becoming Faber's targets during escape.   
  
After both sites have been secured and the CIA is satisfied that they have everything in hand, Sark will remain in custody for a relatively brief length of time, in exchange for his assistance. Even now, Sydney knows her father had to fight for this amount of trust in Sark. She wonders if he did it more for the CIA, or for her.   
  
Sydney also knows Sark must have held a certain amount of hesitation in agreeing to such a plan, and even now she can't bring herself to think past the takedown itself. All she needs to know is that this part of her life will end, and something else will take its place on the other side.   
  
She and Sark have spent the past couple of days finalizing everything that needs to be arranged, reviewing security protocols and timelines and anything else they can think of. There's nothing left to account for. All they can do is wait, and trust that everything will go according to plan.   
  
The two of them are together now in her apartment, as the early light of dawn filters through her bedroom windows and finds them lying comfortably side by side beneath rumpled sheets. They have slept little, but nevertheless both of them are wide awake. Sydney turns in his arms, looking back at him and meeting his gaze.   
  
Her fingers travel across his face and along his chin and neck, touching and cataloguing and memorizing every part of him that she has come to know. He stretches out a hand, runs fingers through her hair, and then again as she rests her head once more and closes her eyes for a moment. His calming influence has never ceased to amaze her, even after all this time. _His hands are skilled in more ways than one_ , she reminisces with a smile to herself.   
  
"What are you thinking about?" he asks her then, responding to her expression.   
  
She opens her eyes as she forms her answer. "You," she tells him simply, as his fingers continue their stroke, across her cheek and through her hair. "A year ago, I never thought I could ever be here, like this. I never realized what I'd been missing, for so long." Her chest rises and falls with another breath, and she looks up at him, catching her hand in his. She laces her fingers between his, stopping their movement and holding them close. "What are you thinking?"  
  
He listens, leaning imperceptibly closer to her, and brings their linked hands to his chest. "I was thinking about what happens next," he tells her. "After the plan is finished."  
  
She watches him for a moment, believing she understands what he means. But she lets him continue. "What will you do, afterwards?" he asks.   
  
Her head shakes a little as she considers this. In truth, she has chosen not to look much farther than the takedown they will carry out together. They have agreed that after each of them has finished their assigned parts, they will each board planes to London where they will meet afterwards and arrange their next steps. She hasn't wanted to look farther than that, as if drawing a plan too far ahead for the future will invite too much expectation, or end only in disappointment.   
  
"I'm not sure," she admits. "There will be things waiting for me in Los Angeles, I know that. I know the CIA will expect me to come back - my father once hinted at another promotion for me, after Berlin has been taken care of."  
  
"Is that what you want?" he asks this time. It's a fair question, and one that she's carefully avoided until now. But she can't put it off any more.  
  
She lifts her eyebrows slightly. "It would be comforting to return," she allows. "When I first came to Berlin I always thought that going back to L.A. would be the next logical step. Now, I'm not so sure. There isn't as much waiting for me there as there once was." Her gaze turns away from him for a moment, becoming distant. "And still, I know how easily the past would catch up to me if I were back there," she says, indicating the whole spectrum of challenges she has faced there, and with the CIA. In truth, she doesn't know if there's anywhere else she could escape to.   
  
He nods, as if accepting this. Perhaps he has anticipated this answer from her, she wonders. But before she can ask, he releases her hand from his, and sits up.  
  
"I have something for you," he says, reaching for his jacket that has been left slung over a chair next to the bed. From the pocket he pulls out a slim envelope, and then hands it to her.   
  
She sits up as well, observing these actions with curiosity. Her brow furrows slightly as she looks back at him, and then she takes the unexpected offering from his hand. "What is this?"  
  
"Your contingency plan," he tells her plainly, his expression open.   
  
She meets his gaze again and searches for any trace of humour, waiting for him to explain what it really is. But there is no other answer, and so her fingers slip underneath the corner of the envelope's tab and she pulls out the contents. Inside are a few identity papers, including one passport in the name of Renee Brown. Before she can ask for further clarification on these, a key slips out of the envelope and onto her lap. She picks it up, a questioning look in her eye.  
  
"What is all of this for? Why another alias?"   
  
"You might not need it, truthfully, but I believe in taking precautions." He nods towards the object she holds in her hand. "That is the key to a safety deposit box in London," he explains, "and those," he adds, indicating the papers, "are what you will need to access it."  
  
"And why would I need to do that?" This is the first he's told her of any plans like this, and it unsettles her. It is a new addition to the plans they have made together, and a faint stream of concern and confusion starts to flow through her.   
  
"In case something doesn't go according to plan," he tells her, "And we're not able to find each other afterwards, I want to know you'll have something to fall back on."  
  
The very idea isn't something she's ever considered, and yet as soon as he started to explain the contents of the envelope she saw right away that it's exactly the kind of thing he would plan for. She skims her fingers over the papers and the smooth cover of the passport, examines the cold metal key, and wonders at how long he must have had this ready for her to fall back on. In her mind's eye she can picture him arranging it all, and knows instantly how easily the decision must have come to him, and how logical it must have seemed.   
  
And then she takes in the full meaning of his words, and raises her head quickly to meet his eye again. He is as calm as a few moments ago; no question remains in his mind at all.  
  
"We'll meet afterwards," she tells him, as if searching for reassurance. Her hands move into action again, sliding the envelope's contents back inside and closing the flap. She puts down the small bundle in front of them, out of her reach, as if acknowledging its receipt but denying its necessity. "We'll meet afterwards, and decide together what to do next," she tells him resolutely. But her voice is not as steady as she would like, and just then she has trouble meeting his gaze once more.   
  
His fingers come to rest beneath her chin, lifting her face to his. Just as gently, and with equal measure, he brings his lips down on hers. The kiss is slow, and reassuring, and yet she responds as if searching for his mouth with hers. She holds her hands at the back of his neck, her thumbs grazing the line of his jaw after they part. For a moment she simply looks back at him, as if still daring him to contradict her, or allow any further bit of uncertainty to pierce through.   
  
And then she folds her arms around him completely and rests her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes and lingering in the sensation of feeling her skin next to his.  
  
"I know it's going to be dangerous," she admits to him then. "It's just that this is the first time in a long time that I've had anything so close to me that's worth risking," she says, her voice struggling above a whisper. It is the first time in years she can remember being so close and unfaltering in her need for another person.   
  
She feels his breath warm on her shoulder, and his arms tighten around her for another moment. He releases her, then, reaching over to the parcel she has all but discarded. Taking one of her empty and waiting hands, he presses the envelope into her hand and folds her fingers over it, before looking back at her.   
  
"Do you trust me?" As he asks he faces her fully, his eyes looking directly into hers. She can read the authenticity and possessiveness in his expression, as his hands grasp at her arms.   
  
Even after their many months together, this is the first time he's ever asked her this, and yet she knows now without question what her answer is. "Yes, I do," she says unhesitatingly.   
  
She clutches the envelope in her hand, and holds one of his hands in the other. And as she rests against him once more she tells herself that the time that she has waited for has finally come: when a new part of her life will begin, and it holds promise and anticipation even if it is also unknown. Still, as much as she believes the truth of this, all she can do is hold on to him and hope that she will not have to be the first one to let go.   
  
  
* * * * *  
  
An hour later he is gone again, off to meet his flight, and Sydney steadies herself and prepares for the part that she must now play. She pulls her hair back and dresses with resolute concentration, bringing her mind now to the tasks ahead of her.   
  
She straps her watch across her wrist and starts the countdown, and gathers her handbag and coat as if today is the same as any other day she has worked for Johannes Faber. Before leaving, she lets her gaze linger around the now-silent expanse of her apartment. She cannot take anything with her, but as she looks around she recognizes that there are few material reminders of this place she wishes to keep.   
  
Instead, she will close her apartment door for the last time, and walk down the stairs and down the street with a renewed sense of confidence and exhilaration. As she walks she knows that whatever she desires to keep from her time in this city, she already carries with her.   
  
She won't look back.  
  
  
* * * * *   
  
By the time she finally makes it to London, less than twenty-four hours have passed since she last saw Sark, but the hours have gone by in a blur and there is little that she can remember clearly.   
  
She recalls the tedious, patient hours of working under Faber's eye, waiting until the pre-arranged time finally arrives. She remembers making herself a cup of coffee and even winking back at Faber with a slight smile as she passed his office, just before the chaos broke loose. The man was self-absorbed enough to smile back, watching her stride as she passed by.   
  
And then the next hour after that is a haze, after alarms began to sound and security teams sprung into action, and then the SWAT team gained entry and the gunfire began. One moment she was fighting back against Faber's guards, and the next moment one of the CIA team recognized her and pressed a vest and pistol into her hands. Then she was slipping the vest over her head and breaking through doors, and running outside through alleys towards her final extraction point.   
  
She jumped into the waiting van and the Agents called in to Base Ops, and she explained everything she could remember. She bit back her frustration when they told her the New York operation was still underway and nothing could be confirmed yet. Even as she watched with pleasure as Faber was escorted away in handcuffs, her relief was tainted by the uncertainty over what would happen next for her.   
  
And several hours later she stands in a London hotel room, her mind trying to make sense of what has just happened. All she longs for now is his presence next to her, and his words of reassurance in her ear.   
  
Sydney dials his number and receives no response, and now all she can do is wait.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
The next morning she wakes up alone, with no recollection of when or how she fell asleep. She still wears the same clothes as the day before, and as she starts to glance around she notices her wig and sparse belongings are scattered across the table and armchair from the previous night.   
  
She sits up, experiencing a moment of disorientation as she remembers where she is and why, and then another moment of anxiety as she realizes she is still here alone when Sark should be with her. She tries his phone again, and still there is no response. _He might still be in transit,_ she reasons.  
  
The shower is warm and welcoming, and after she's dressed again she feels slightly more prepared for what lies ahead. She's debating whether to try phoning once more, or whether to check in with someone from the New York Base Ops. They'd been hesitant to disclose anything, even to her, until the operation was complete, but still she can't help but wonder why no one's contacted her yet. All of it is enough to make anxiety turn a knot in her stomach.   
  
There's a knock at the door then, and she stands quickly. Reaching for her pistol with one hand, she moves to answer it, and doesn't know what to think when she looks through the viewer and sees her father standing in the hall waiting for her. She wastes no time in pulling the door open, knows she can't hide the expectation she feels.   
  
"Dad? What's going on? I thought someone was supposed to call first..."  
  
He enters her room and she shuts the door closed behind him. His demeanour is of the same professional exterior she has become accustomed to whenever she meets him, and yet there is a hesitation about him that she has not seen before.  
  
"Dad...Tell me what's happening, I still haven't heard what went on with New York..."  
  
"I know, Sydney, I know, and I apologize for that. We encountered some difficulties at that site, and needed to wait to be sure there was nothing we had missed. I wanted to be the one to explain it all to you in person," he adds.  
  
She feels a knot of worry start to twist at her stomach, and she swallows. "What are you talking about? I thought since everything went well in Berlin..." The rest of her sentence trails off. She doesn't need to explain what else she expected.   
  
"Sydney, there's no simple way for me to tell you this," Jack's voice is decisive, clear. "Sark was shot during the New York operation."  
  
She's incredulous, disbelieving. A thousand questions come to her in a flood. "What? How..." _No, no, no…_  
  
"The SWAT team was very thorough, very skilled. They didn't waste any time after the system started to destruct, and as soon as they could enter, they did. Sark must have been trying to escape already, and one of Faber's own agents fired on him. After that…"   
  
Jack pauses for a moment, his eyes blinking slowly, "It caught the attention of one of our own Agents, and Faber's security team was eliminated, but by that time it was too late. It's not clear whether they recognized him for who he is or if they simply shot at him because it looked like he was trying to make a getaway."  
  
Sydney feels as though the blood has drained from her, as her hands go numb and she's sure her face is white as a sheet. Her knees start to give out, and she sinks to a sitting position at the edge of the bed. Jack follows, sitting next to her and putting a hand on her arm. The question lingers on her lips, but she doesn't know if she can bring herself to ask it. She doesn't think she can ask without trembling. Somehow, she finds a way.  
  
"Did they find his body?"  
  
The silence is agonizing. Her father answers after a moment's pause, his tone gentler now. "Sydney...According to reports, Sark sustained at least two bullet wounds to his torso, and one in his leg. There was a considerable amount of blood..."  
  
"But no one's found him?" She's grasping now, looking for reassurance and terrified there will be none.   
  
His mouth closes, lips pressing together in a line. He has no other answer to her question than the truth, but he knows it will bring no further comfort to her. "No, no one has found him."  
  
Relief flickers through her mind for a brief moment, as she holds on to a thread of hope that this means he might still be alive. But that is only for a moment, and then she swallows, blinking fiercely against tears she cannot stop.   
  
She knows she should have expected this, already knew what the possibilities were when she began this. _And so did he_. She remembers his words to her before, and his actions that spoke so many volumes more than that, and how he must have known the possible consequences when he agreed to help them. _To help me._   
  
Suddenly she's caught, paralysed under everything that she's feeling all at once. She can't process all of it: the reality that suddenly intrudes into the expectation she has just allowed in to her life; the strength it must have taken for her father to sit by and await the moment when he would need to give her this news; even the very fact that she is now free again is not something she can grasp on to now.   
  
She lifts a hand to her mouth as her other arm wraps around her waist as if trying to hold herself together; Her vision blurs completely before her eyes press shut completely. She senses her father shift closer, and then both his arms close around her, and she buries her head against his shoulder.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
Jack stays with her a while longer, asks her if she will consider returning to Los Angeles with him. At that moment she's still so disoriented she doesn't know whether to accept the invitation out of gratitude, or refuse out of some persistent optimism or hope that she still needs to grasp on to.   
  
In the end she declines, delaying any decision and giving Sark more time to contact her. She even tries the other listings that Evan Crane has held, in London and elsewhere, and still finds no response.   
  
The day passes, and then the night, and then another day, and he never arrives in London. Sydney waits for him according to plan, even a little bit longer than she was supposed to, despite the urgency she feels and the grief she feels beginning to tear at her.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
A full seventy-two hours have passed since Karen Sorensen stepped out of a Berlin office tower for the last time. Now, a dark-haired woman named Renee Brown walks into the National Westminster Bank in London for the first time.   
  
When she hands over her key and offers her identification, she is brought to the safety deposit box that has been left for her, and discovers that it was last accessed just over one month ago. _Before the takedown was even set,_ she realizes.   
  
Her fingers tremble a little as she opens the box and removes its sparse contents one piece at a time.   
  
The first thing she sees is a hand written note with three simple words.   
  
_"For the future."_  
  
And although her father has been the only person to witness her emotional response to the fall of a man she once despised, the grief she feels for that man will finally overtake her as she reads the box's contents. For inside she finds cashiers cheques, and a small purse of diamonds; But there at the very bottom, a folder containing the ownership deeds to a house in Thailand, and month-old statements for an account with the Bank of Asia on Phuket Island. And the name on all of these documents is hers.   
  
_Sydney Bristow._  
  
  
* * * * *   
  
It's a full day later by the time she boards a plane to Hong Kong. Just as easily as Karen Sorensen stepped off of a plane in Berlin, and Renee Brown stepped off of one in London, so too will Sydney Bristow leave them both behind when she arrives in Hong Kong.   
  
From there she will transfer to another plane to Bangkok, and then another that will take her south along the Thai coast to the island of Phuket. And then once she has arrived there she will take a taxi into town and walk into the tall office of the Bank of Asia, and show them the identity cards she holds. They will provide her with access to a joint account opened one month ago by Mr. Crane, and nod graciously when she thanks them, and try to ignore their looks of polite concern when her hand shakes as she signs her authorization.   
  
And then she will take all of these cards and documents to another office, this one for an upscale real estate outfit, and once again they will accommodate her requests.   
  
As the day finally comes to an end, she will drive by taxi to a house atop a green hillside above Chalong bay, and try to steady her hand as she inserts her key into the lock. She will walk through the house and explore every room, brush her fingers along every piece of furniture that stands there and every picture that hangs on the walls, and search for some reminder of the man who has given her all of this.   
  
She will stand on the balcony and watch the orange streak of light start to fade on the horizon, and with futile hands will try to brush her tears away.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
A week passes, and then another. Her grief and disorientation never quite leave her, but eventually she finds herself seeking pursuits for her time, and exploring interests she'd forgotten about.   
  
Through all the years in SD-6, and then the CIA, and then in Berlin, she always wondered to herself what she would do after it all ended. Somehow in her mind, her professional attachments were never her final destination, but the route she had to take to get there. Now she wonders if the place she finds herself in now is just another bend in the road, or the final stop that has been out of reach for so long.   
  
After a month has gone by she has found a pattern to her days, and has begun to recognize the faces that greet her in the markets she frequents and the restaurants she visits. Even the local Bhuddist temple has become a familiar place and now offers her comfort. The people in the town speak to her in halting English, and each week she responds with a few more words of Thai than she was able to do before. Out of all the languages she learned during her time with the CIA, she never had the chance to learn this one.   
  
In the mornings she rides her bike into town and around the island, as the breeze flows through her hair and she lifts her face to the sunshine. Her afternoons are filled with photography excursions and fishing lessons and Thai language books. In the evenings she sips at glasses of Bourbon because it reminds her of him, and she stands on her balcony and tries to count the stars. She watches the tourists who stay for a week at a time and smiles; she watches couples holding hands on the beach and her smile fades a little.   
  
Her skin has taken on the golden sheen of the sun, and her once-empty closet fills with sleeveless tops of every colour, and sandals in every style she can find. The previous auburn shade of her hair has changed and softened into a copper brown, lit by highlights from so much time outside.   
  
Every few weeks she travels up the coast to the larger postal depot, and sends plainly marked packages to an anonymous post office box in Los Angeles. In exchange, she receives brief anonymous letters from a man whose handwriting she will always know, and every month that goes by is another that she knows she will never be able to share with her father. Each time when she arrives to receive the latest package she experiences intense anticipation and enthusiasm at hearing from Jack. And then as she reads them and returns on her way back, her heart sinks as she asks herself when she will ever see him again.   
  
And even after the first month passes, and the second drifts into the third, and the fourth month into a fifth, every time she returns to the house that is almost a home she still pauses and listens, and then reminds herself that no one will be waiting for her.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
Still, time passes, and each week she finds herself more at home in this new place than she did the week before. She's discovered the freedom that has been given to her, away from the professional restrictions she carried for so long, and towards the personal liberty she has always wanted.   
  
One day in July the weather changes again, as she has learned so often happens at this time of year. There hasn't been any rain for several days, but she rises that morning and watches the grey clouds start to scatter along the still-blue sky, and feels the wind start to flow through the windows. As she inhales, her lungs take in the warm, humid air and she recognizes the prelude to the rain that will come that day.  
  
Sydney packs a bottle of water and some extra film in her backpack and slings her camera across her shoulder, and walks down the hill towards the bay. She's become accustomed to the changing weather and how it alters the island's landscape, and her camera has become enough of a companion for her that she takes every opportunity she can to find new pictures and scenes and colours.  
  
An hour or two passes as she makes her way down the beach and through the coves along the southeastern side of the island. She watches as the boats travel back towards the shore, and as the clouds gather the light changes every few minutes. The blue water fades from turquoise to a deep royal shade and then back to somewhere in between as the sun gradually departs and the haze move in.   
  
Three rolls of film are full before she realizes it, and then she starts to walk back along the coast towards the beach she now knows so well.  
  
It's another half hour later when her hill finally comes into view, and by then the wind has become fierce. She admonishes herself for getting caught so easily - it's happened to her before, and resulted in one ruined camera and a bad cold the next day.   
  
When she rounds the final curve and steps on to her own beach, all she can think about is the humid air that moves around her so furiously, and the weight of her camera, and her water bottle that is now empty. As the first drops of rain begin to dot the white sand, she glances up briefly and experiences a moment of frustrated impatience when she notices the man walking down the steps near her house.   
  
She doesn't want to have explain to another tourist that this isn't the time to go swimming, or that she doesn't have directions to whatever scuba resort he's trying to find, or do anything else that's going to keep her from getting inside with her film and into dry clothes. But then she gets closer to the hill, and watches from her short distance as the man continues down her stairs.  
  
And she takes in his appearance; she sees his hair that was once brown has now lightened again, and his skin that is still pale from so many days and nights spent out of sight, and the hesitancy in his stride that comes from the slight limp in one leg.   
  
Her heartbeat quickens, her breathing becomes suddenly shallow, and she stops in her tracks as she watches what she knows in her mind must be a vision - a hallucination, surely - because it's what she's told herself would never be real for her.   
  
But her hands shake as she grasps at the straps on her bag and her camera as if for dear life, and for that moment she's frozen where she stands. Because she's convinced that if she takes one step further she'll shatter this vision, and the pieces will be irretrievable but somehow she'll have to pick them up and keep going.   
  
_No, this is real. It has to be._  
  
The man's feet leave the final step and touch down on the sand, and his hand lifts from the railing as he begins to walk towards her. And then she stops debating whether to step forward, because now she's not just moving towards him, but running. She leaves her bag and her camera behind because she's already forgotten why she brought them along, and he's still moving too slowly and she can't wait another second longer.   
  
And in that moment before she reaches him she finally watches that grey streak that has clouded her future start to fade, and it is replaced by something she cannot describe but only knows that it will belong to both of them, and that its brightness overpowers her.   
  
She still knows that almost nothing will be certain. Her life will change, that is all that she can tell for sure.  
  
She knows that today a storm might come... That she might leave here and never return... That he might come to her now and take her away somewhere she could never predict... Or that she might stay here and live out the rest of her days with the man she once struggled against and who now lights her memories like no one else has...  
  
She knows that there might still be another SD-6 or Johannes Faber, and that the troubles of her past will never truly fade... Perhaps Rambaldi's legacy will return to her again one day and she will wrestle with him even more furiously than before… Perhaps there will never be a truly happy ending, or children, or a permanent address, or anything that she thought she wanted...   
  
Still, she knows that none of that matters, because all that she truly longs for is now here with her. And so, when she reaches him she throws her arms around him and claims his lips with hers as if she has found her lifeline again. He kisses her back, his mouth responding to hers just as on that first grey dawn that now seems to her like a memory of a past age.   
  
They fall, then, knees bending to the sand under the strength of their affinity, and she can't be sure if the damp saltiness she tastes is from her tears or the rain, because the clouds have finally opened above them.   
  
She's drowning in the sensation of his hands on her, and her body against his, and tasting him all over again and it's the same, just the same as it was before. He wraps his arms around her and she feels his hands pressing against her, wants to feel them everywhere at once; and inside she is splintering, breaking under the flood of emotion that envelops her.  
  
In a moment they will part, and she will touch her hands to his face and look into his eyes. Her voice will fail her, because she knows if she speaks it will not even begin to explain how she feels.   
  
She will take his hand, and they will walk side by side back up to the hill, and the rain will continue to fall but they will not notice. She will lead him inside and show him the life he has given her, how she has found so much in her life that she had never thought to expect. And he will hold her and offer her his plea for forgiveness, tell her how he'd planned for so much, how he had needed to be sure of his strength and her safety before he returned to her.   
  
And for a split second her grief will be stronger than it ever was, before dissolving completely into something she knows without a doubt is the most happiness she has ever felt. For the first time in years she will truly smile - a genuine and broad smile of fulfillment and relief, to follow countless times of regret and anger and sorrow.   
  
She will wrap her arms around him once more as he envelops her in his, and he will show her without words that she will never need to wait for him again.   
  
  
* * * * *   
  
_~FIN~_  
  
* * * * *   
  
  
_"Put off that mask of burning gold  
With emerald eyes."  
"O no, my dear, you make so bold  
To find if hearts be wild and wise,  
And yet not cold."  
  
"I would but find what's there to find,  
Love or deceit."  
"It was the mask engaged your mind,  
And after set your heart to beat,  
Not what's behind."  
  
"But lest you are my enemy,  
I must enquire."  
"O no, my dear, let all that be;  
What matter, so there is but fire  
In you, in me?"  
  
~'The Mask', by W.B. Yeats_  
  
* * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and feedback are gratefully received!

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback and kudos are always appreciated!


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